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J. T. TROWBRIDGE’S BOOKS 


NOVELS 


Uniform Style . , 

Farnell’s Folly 

Coupon Bonds and Other Stories 
N eighbor Jackwood Revised Ed. 
Cudjo's Cave 


. . Price -50 each 

The Three Scouts 
The Drummer Boy 
Martin Merrivale, His X Mark 
Neighbors’ Wives 


The Vagabonds Illustrated Poem Cloth Full gilt Price $1.50 


JUVENILES 

All Handsomely Illustrated Sets in Neat Boxes 


Any volume sold separately 


SILVER MEDAL STORIES 

Six Volumes Price $1.25 each 


The Silver Medal 
His Own Master 
Bound in Honor 


The Pocket-Rifle 

The Jolly Rover 

Young Joe and Other Boys 


THE TIDE-MILL STORIES 


Six Volumes 

Phil and His Friends 

The Tinkham Brothers’ Tide-Mill 

The Satin-Wood Box 


Price $1.2$ each 

The Little Master 
His One Fault 
Peter Budstone 


START IN LIFE STORIES 
Five Volumes Price $ i .00 each 
A Start in Life The Kelp-Gatherers 

Biding His Time The Scarlet Tanager 

The Lottery Ticket 

TOBY TRAFFORD SERIES 
Three Volumes Price $1.25 each 
The Fortunes of Toby Trafford | Father Brighthopes 

Woodie Thorpe’s Pilgrimage and Other Stories 


LEE AND SHEPARD PUBLISHERS BOSTON 


NEIGHBORS’ WIVES 




BT 



J. T. TROWBRIDGE 



/ 


6/?G 


BOSTON- 

LEE AND SHEPARD, PUBLISHERS 

NEW YORK 

CHARLES T. DILLINGHAM 
1895 




Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1867, t . 

J. T. TROWBRIDGE, 

In the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the District of Massachut^tts 
Copyright, 1895, by J. T. TnowBiiinuJi 


H- sfrf/ 


I 


e 




CO^TTEE TS. 


CBAPTER PAGl 

L The Adopted Sister, .... . 7 

IL Mr. Tasso Smith and the Apjohns, ... 20 

III. Absence, 30 

IV. Mrs. Apjohn’s Adventure, 35 

V. Cooper John to the Rescue,' .... 41 

VI. Sunday Evening at Abel’s, .... 53 

VIT. Mr. Smith’s Friend’s Jewels, .... 63 

VIII. Faustina’s Tangled Web, 71 

IX. Faustina Returns Mrs. Apjohn’s Visit, . 78 

X. Faustina’s Suspense, 85 

XI. Tasso’s Revenge, 91 

XII. 'I'he Guilty Conscience, 104 

XIII. The Sad Case of the Cooper, . . . 114 

XIV. More and more Entangled, .... 123 

XV. Tragical, 138 

XVI. The Arrest, .145 

XVII. Faustina Consoles Herself, .... 155 


XVIII. “ He Entered in his House, his Home no More,” 159 

XIX. Husband and Wife, 164 

XX. The Reiukn of Eliza, 172 


(III) 


r 


IV 


Contents 


XXI. 

Home once More, .... 

• 

• 

181 

XXII. 

Another Sunday, 

• 

• 

189 

XXIII. 

Abel and Eliza, 

. 

• 

199 

XXIV. 

The Night, 

. 

. 

207 

XXV. 

Fiat Justitia, 

. 

• 

220 

XXVI. 

Through Prison-Bars, .... 

• 

. 

235 

XXVII. 

The Convict’s Beautiful Wife, 

. 

• 

247 

XXVIII. 

The Convict’s Christian Neighbors, 

. 

. 

254 

XXIX. 

In Jail. Leave-Taking, . 

. 

• 

260 

XXX. 

The Old Lady Takes Final Leave, . 

• 

. 

270 

XXXI. 

The Beginning of the End, . 

. 

. 

281 

XXXII. 

Miss Jones and Mr. Smith, 

• 

. 

291 

XXXIII. 

Eliza’s Mission, 

• 

• 

300 

XXXIV. 

Eliza and the Governor, . 

• 


303 

XXXV. 

Deliverance, 


• 

309 

XXXVI. 

Home, 

• 


313 


ITeighbors’ "Wives. 


I. 


THE ADOPTED SISTER. 



T was three years since old Abel Dane laid down 
the compass and the chisel on his work-bench in 
the old shop, and himself on his bed in the new 
house which he had so lately built for his com- 
fort, and which he never left again until he was carried 
out by his neighbors. 

“ To be sure ! ” moralized one of the pall-bearers, on 
that occasion, — a pale, meagre, bald little man, John 
Apjohn by name, and a cooper by trade, — “it’s with 
houses as ’tis with every other airthly blessin’. We’re 
no sooner ready to enjoy ’em than either they go or we 
go. Here’s neighbor Dane, been so busy building houses 
for other people all his life that he never had time till 
now to build one for himself ; and to think on ’t ! ” said 
the cooper, with mournful, wondering eyes, “ there the 
house is, and here he is a-goin’ to his final home, and 
leavin’ everything to his heir 1 To be sure, to be sure ! ” 
and he shook his head solemnly at the decrees of fate. 

(7) 


8 


Neighbors^ Wives. 


The heir mentioned was Abel Dane the younger, who 
inherited his father’s trade, the old shop, the new house, 
and a faithful foster-sister. 

It was three years since that dark day in autumn ; and 
now just such another dark day in the fall of the year 
was drawing to a close ; and Abel’s foster-sister, having 
set the supper-table, took her favorite place at the win- 
dow to watch for his coming. And there, sitting in the 
cheerful room, which would soon be made more cheerful 
by his presence ; remembering the sad day of the fu- 
neral, so like this day ; thinking of all God’s mercies to 
her, before and since, — to her, a poor orphan, so un- 
worthy such a home and such a brother ; looking across 
the gloomy common, whose very bleakness enhanced her 
sense of life-warm comfort in house and heart, she saw, 
through thick tears of happiness, which magnified him 
into a glimmering seraph, with irregular, shining wings, 
her “ more than brother,” returning. 

Across the brown common, under the wild elm- 
boughs swinging in the wind, he came rapidly walking 
He stopped to leave some tools he carried at the shop, 
and that gave the little housekeeper time to get the tea 
and toast on the table. Then she drew up the invalid’s 
chair, beat the cushion, and helped the invalid to her 
seat, — for this was another important item of Abel’s 
inheritance which we have neglected to mention, namely, 
a paralytic mother. She was a cheerful old Christian, 
with the most benignant of double chins, in the full pos- 
session of her mental faculties, but physically shattered. 


The Adopted Sister, 


9 


She had suffered two or three strokes, the last of which 
had produced a singular effect upon her organs of 
speech. 

“ Thank you, Gridiron,” said she, — for this was the 
oddity of it, that sometimes she could not speak at all, 
and sometimes she suddenly shot out the most unex- 
pected and irrelevant speeches quite involuntarily; and 
sometimes when she meant to say one word, another 
ludicrously inappropriate would drop out in its place, 
as much to her own astonishment as anybody’s. The 
name of her adopted daughter was Eliza ; but the near- 
est she could come to it at that moment was Grid- 
iron. 

Abel washed his stout carpenter’s hands at the sink, 
kicked off his boots, slipped on his slippers, and the 
three sat around the little table together, Abel opposite 
Eliza, — a goodly young man and a strong, brown- 
cheeked and chestnut-haired, with a countenance not 
lacking in brightness generally, and particularly radiant 
on this occasion. 

Eliza noticed his gayety, and was glad. They were 
not lovers, though she loved him. She had never con- 
fessed to herself that she hoped in her inmost heart to 
be nearer and dearer to him some day than she was now. 
To be to him what she was seemed happiness enough, — 
his sister, his servant, — his, whom it was so sweet to 
serve : preparing his meals, which it was her meat and 
her drink to see him eat with appetite ; making his bed 
and smoothing his dear pillow, with hands magnetic 


lO 


Neighbors' Wives. 


with affection ; stealing his boots, and blacking them, 
with the delight which love lends to the meanest occupa- 
tion ; reading to him evenings and Sundays, or hearing 
him read from the books that gave her a twofold 
pleasure because he enjoyed them ; living thus day 
after day and year after year in the nourishing atmos- 
phere of his out-going and in-coming, and satisfied to 
live on thus forever. 

And now, without questioning what made Abel so 
joyous, she was joyous too ; for this is the blessedness 
of love, that it annihilates selfishness, and makes us 
happy in others’ happiness. Filling the cups, she poured 
her own thankful spirit into them with the fragrant bev- 
erage, and sweetened them, not with sugar only, but 
with her own spiritual sweetness, which both Abel and 
his mother tasted in the tea she made and gave them, 
and missed in that which others made and gave them, 
without comprehending the subtle cause. 

“ Have another cup, mother ? ” 

“Ho, my dear,” said the old lady. “But I’ll thank 
you for a piece of the contribution-box.” 

She meant to ask for cheese. Then she laughed at 
herself, half- vexed. Abel roared with mirth. And Eliza 
said, — for Eliza was the wit of the family, — 

“ I’m sure, old cheese bears a strong resemblance to a 
contribution-box ; for when it is passed around, you 
often find a few mites in it.” 

Upon which Abel flashed his beaming eyes upon his 
foster-sister. He was going to compliment her wit ; but 


The Adopted Sister. 


II 


soniething better than that, — something glowing in hei 
face, — attracted his attention. 

“ Why, ’Liza ! how handsome you are to-night I ” 

Now Eliza was not handsome, and she knew it. She 
knew that she was a plain little girl. She did not doubt, 
however, but that Abel saw something pleasing in her 
tace just then, and the delicious consciousness made her 
blush like a rose. 

“ Positively beautiful ! ain’t she, mother ? ” cried Abel, 
with fond enthusiasm. 

“ She is always beautiful to me, she is always so good,” 
the old woman managed to say, without a slip. 

“ A beautiful soul makes a beautiful face, they say,” 
added Abel. “ Consequently a beautiful face indicates 
a beautiful soul, don’t it?” — with a gay, triumphant 
smile, which Eliza did not understand till .two hours 
later, — thinking, poor child, that his words referred to 
her. 

But, two hours later, Mrs. Dane having fallen asleep 
in her chair, and Abel having shut the book he was 
reading, and taken Eliza’s work out of her hand, they 
two sat together before the fire, which blazed ud^ 
brightly with shavings from the shop, and Abel lool 
into her face with ardent eyes. 

“ ’Liza, I’m going to tell you something.” X" 

A sweet tremor rippled all over her, as^if she had 
been a fountain, and his breath the warm south wind. 
Slie locked through his eyes into his soul, and saw love 
there* while he looked — not into her soul. 


12 


Neighbors' Wives. 


“ It is my heart’s secret,” he went on ; for she was 
dumb with fear and gladness. “ I have wanted to tell 
you; I hope it will make you happy. We can’t live al- 
ways in the way we do, you know; and I never can 
think of parting from you, ’Liza.” 

How she trembled I And now she felt a growing 
terror in her joy ; for, to one whose daily life is blessed, 
the thought of a great change, whether for good or evil, 
comes like a portentous shadow. 

“ So I have concluded it is best to be married. I am 
going to be married, ’Liza. When we were talking of 
faces, do you know whose face I was thinking of ? The 
most beautiful face in all this world 1 Her face who 
wrote this letter which I got to-day, and which has 
made me the happiest of men. You may read it, ’Liza.” 

He placed it in her hands. It dropped from them to 
the floor. She sat rigid, speechless, pallid — a spasm of 
misery in her face, something like death in her heart. 

“Won’t you read it?” He stooped to pick up the 
letter. “Don’t think her coming into the family will 
make any difierence with you. We will all live here 
together. You will always have a home here with us ; 
you will love her; you can’t help it, Eliza.” He re- 
garded her a minute in silence, his brows darkening. 
“You disappoint me,” he added, heavily; “I didn’t 
expect you would receive the news in this way. Don’t 
you like Faustina ? ” 

“I think — she is — very pretty,” poor Eliza forced 
her despairing lips to say. 


The Adopted Sister. 


n 


Why, then, do you object to her ? ” 

“I? object? Oh, I don’t I — if you can make her 
happy,” 

“What made you look so, then, when I told you? 
It made my heart sick. And now that smile is worse 
yet — such a wretched smile ! I see you don’t approve 
of my choice,” turning away resentfully. “I wanted 
you, of all persons, to love and welcome her. But never 
mind.” 

“ Oh, Abel ! ” she chokingly said, “ don’t blame me. 
I can’t bear it. I — I am glad — I will be glad — for 
your sake.” 

“ You act glad, surely I ” grinned Abel, sarcastic; for 
he thought her unreasonable, unkind; and so he stabbed 
her with a look to punish her. 

“ Mother — I think of her,” gasped the miserable 
girl; “so old, with her infirmity, which every person 
will not bear with, and cherish her all the more tenderly 
for, as we do.” And covering her face, she shook with 
a violent, convulsive breath, but did not sob. 

Abel frowned at what he considered a mean insinu- 
ation against his beautiful Faustina; and, holding the 
letter in his hand, looked moodily at the fire, utterly ig- 
norant and regardless of the agony in the weak woman’s 
breast at his side. “ A girl’s caprice ; a little trait of 
envy, — angry, perhaps, because I haven’t consulted her 
before; but she’ll be sorry for it; and if she isn’t, why, 
I shall be independent of her ” — with such a glorious 
young creature for his wife ! And the young man self- 


H 


Neighbors^ Wives, 


ishly calculated the slight loss it would be to him, even 
if Eliza should carry her resentment so far as to leave 
his house; not, of course, seriously supposing such an 
event possible. 

Eliza conquered her agony, uncovered her face, and 
quietly resumed her work. And there they sat by the 
fire, in silence, with such different thoughts I Silence 
which rose like a rock in their hitherto united lives, its 
hardness and coldness sundering them, — two separate 
streams henceforth, with leagues of misunderstanding 
and estrangement broadening between them. Did you 
never feel such a rock rise between you and one you 
loved ? and see the stream of his future flow toward 
flowery embowered vistas of hope, while yours took a 
sudden plunge into some chilly, unsunned, melancholy 
cave? 

“ Well, children,” said the old lady, waking, “ I guess 
I’ll — night-cap I ” 

“ Go to bed ? ” said Abel. 

“Yes, — I believe I was almost asleep; but I didn’t 
quite lose myself, did I ? Evenings are growing longer. 
Interesting story — where did you leave off ? I’m so ” 
— touching her forehead — “ what do you call it ? — 
jewsharp.” 

“ Absent-minded,” suggested Abel. 

That was the word. And so she went off to bed, try- 
ing to recall the story they had been reading ; but catch- 
ing not even a hint of the drama they had been acting 
before her face. Such is life; and such are its specta- 


The Adopted Sister. 


15 


tors. Daily and nightly, in street and dwelling, even 
under the roofs where we abide, and in the very rooms 
where we meet to laugh and sing away the hours to- 
gether, tragedies are acting in that little theatre, the 
heart, and we catch so seldom any hint of them ! 

Eliza conducted Mrs. Dane to her chamber; nor did 
she return to sit a little while alone with Abel as usual, 
but went to her own room, unlighted, and shut herself 
up there with the dark and cold. 

And now once more kneeling, with her throbbing head 
pressed against the casement, she looked across the 
bleak common, where the wild elm-boughs were sway- 
ing in the wind, and the pallid moonlight fell. The 
loose leaves rustled along the ground under the win- 
dow. The gables moaned and thrilled, and the lone 
crickets sang. And remembering how lately the out- 
door desolation had enhanced her idea of life-warm 
comfort within, she thought her heart would burst. 

Leaves of the dying autumn I moonlight spread so 
white and cold over the face of the night I crickets 
and whistling wind I who gave you your power over the 
human soul ? and why do you pierce and wring the 
heart of a poor girl, pierced and wrung enough already 
with unrequited love ? No wonder our forefathers 
thought the moonlight fairy-haunted, and deemed the 
waving elder-boughs the beckoning fingers of elves. 

The next day, just a little paler than usual, but quite 
self-possessed, Eiiza went about her household-work. 
She was the same to Abel, in most outward things, as she 


i6 


Neighbors' Wives. 


had ever been ; but oh, the hidden mind ! This Abel 
could not see. He resented her last night’s conduct, and 
waited for her to come to him humbly and ask his forgive- 
ness, when he intended to pardon her magnanimously, 
after administering a fitting rebuke, and then be again 
to her the kind brother he had always been, and always 
meant to be, in spite of her faults. He had even pondered 
what he ought to say to her on that occasion. And in 
the mean time he treated her with very proper reserve. 

The days passed, the leaves all fell from the trees ; it 
was now November; and Eliza, having worked indus- 
triously to prepare the house for the coming bride, when 
all was done, requested Abel, one Sunday afternoon, to 
grant her a few minutes’ conversation. The generous 
young man put aside his newspaper, and appeared quite 
ready to receive her penitent confession. 

“Well, Eliza, what is it?” he said, encouragingly, 
trying to recall his speech. 

“ I thought you ought to know,” she began, in a very 
low, slightly tremulous voice, “ that I — am going away 
to-morrow.” 

Abel forgot his speech, — opened his eyes. 

“ Going I where ? ” 

“ I think — to Lowell.” 

“ To Lowell I what for ? Not to stay ? ” 

“ Yes,” she answered, quietly, “ if I can find work in 
the mills.” 

“The mills I” ejaculated Abel, frowningly. “What 
are you talking of work in the mills for ? ” 


The Adopted Sister, 17 

“ Because I shall not be needed here any more, and 1 
must get my living.” 

“ Eliza,” said Abel, sternly, “ you are a strange girl I 
Can’t you understand me ? Haven’t I told you that you 
could always have a home here ? And now what is this 
absurd notion about getting your living ? ” 

“ Don’t be angry. You will do very well without 
me. You won’t miss me, after a few days. I go to- 
morrow.” 

Abel looked at her a minute, with fixed teeth. Her 
subdued, calm, independent way exasperated him. 

“You are a stubborn, ungrateful girl I ” 

“ I hope not,” she murmured. 

“ To leave us at this time 1 ” he exclaimed; though he 
did not like to own that he needed her to receive and 
attend his bride. “I can’t understand such perverse- 
ness I ” 

Cut to the heart, Eliza did not answer, and he stalked 
away. 

What gave edge to his reproof was the consciousness 
that she was acting unreasonably. Why not stay till the 
wedding, and welcome the beautiful Eaustina, like a 
sensible girl ? Simply because she could not. It was 
not jealousy, but something far deeper than jealousy 
that set her soul against this marriage. The entire 
instinct of the woman rose up and prophesied the un- 
suitableness of Abel’s chosen bride. Hot solely for 
her own sake, but for Abel’s also, and equally for 
his mother’s, she must regard the wedding-day as an evil 
2 * 


i8 


Neigh b o 7' s' Wives . 


one to them all; and to join in the festivities of that oc- 
casion, to mask her misery with smiles, to kiss and con- 
gratulate and witness the joy over an event which was 
worse than death to her, would have been too terrible a 
mockery. And so, even at the risk of seeming ungrate- 
ful and perverse, she must depart before the bride 
came. 

Did you ever leave a place that had been all that 
home could be to you, and go forth shivering into the 
dark future ? Some dreary November afternoon, you 
take down the pictures from the walls which you may 
never see again; empty the familiar drawers and shelves 
which you will use no more, but which somebody else 
to whom you give place will cheerfully occupy after 
you; pull out the wretched trunk from its hiding-place, 
and commence packing. Here are old letters to be de- 
stroyed. Here are keepsakes you hardly know whether 
to take with you or return, Ophelia-like, to the giver 
who has “ proved unkind,” they are still so precious to 
you, while they make your heart so ache and sicken. 
For relief you turn away and look out upon the bleak 
sky of November. Small comfort ^ou derive from the 
drifts of gray clouds that lie like sandbars in the blue, 
cold ocean of infinity, type of the sea you are about to 
sail. It is insupportable ! The very roots of your being 
seem torn up by this change. How golden are the days 
that are no more ! How like iron the grim gates of the 
morrow I "Where will these miserable trifles you are 
packing up be next unpacked ? Upon the w^alls of what 


The Adopted Sister. 


19 


lonely room will you hang this little Madonna, and this 
print of the Saviour? Among what unsympathiz- 
ing strangers will your solitary, toilsome lot be cast ? 
There is One who knows; and what is best for you, he 
knows far better than you 


20 


Neighbors' Wives, 


IL 

MR. TASSO SMITH AND THE APJOHNS. 

“ To be sure I ” said John Apjohn, the cooper, enter- 
ing his house the next day, and putting his feet on the 
stove, with a prodigious sigh. “ It is a sad world, Pru- 
dy ! What would old Abel Dane have said, I wonder ? 
I’m glad we’ve no children. To be sure, to ’be sure I ” 

“ There now I let that stove alone I ” exclaimed Mrs. 
Apjohn. “You burn out more wood when you are in 
the house five minutes, than I do in all day.” 

The meagre, shivering little man crouched over the 
fire; and, glancing timidly up at the glowing face, ample 
proportions, and huge arms of that warm-blooded and 
superior female, his wife, who stood before him, bread- 
knife in hand, to see her command enforced, he discreetly 
laid back in the wood-box a stick he had taken out. 

“ It’s a cold world,” he sighed. 

“ So much the more need to be savin’ o’ fuel. We 
should be in the poor-house ’fore spring if ’twan’t for 
me.” And Mrs. Prudence trod heavy and strong abo At 
her work. 

As she disappeared in the pantry, the cold-blooded 
cooper took occasion to peep under one of the griddles; 


Mr, Tasso Smith and the Apjohns. 21 

and he had his hand on the interdicted stick again, when 
her sudden reappearance with some bowls and spoons, 
caused him to drop the griddle, the stick, and the fol- 
lowing philosophical reihark: 

“Changes in this world is very wonderful.” He 
rubbed his hands over the stove, and proceeded: “ Who 
knows but what it ’ll be our turn next ? 1 knowed old 
Mis’ Dane when she seemed as fur removed from trou- 
ble as anybody. Then she lost her husband. Then she 
was afflicted in her speech. And now — to be sure, to 
be sure I ” 

“ What now ? ” demanded Prudence. “ Has anything 
re’ly happened ? or is it only your hypoes ? ” 

“ My hypoes ? As if I didn’t have reason to I Hain’t 
I seen ’Lizy take the stage this mornin,’ goin’ nobody 
knows where, to ’arn a livin’ amongst strangers ? She’s 
growed jest as thin as a stave lately, and she looked like 
death when I put out my hand to say good-by.” 

“ Why 1 I want to know I ” said Prudence, from the 
pantry. “ Has she re’ly gone ? Wal, I can’t blame her, 
as I know on, for wantin’ to be ’arnin’ somethin’, — it’s 
nat’ral. — I hear that stove! ” 

The cooper softly closed the griddle. 

“ 1 see old Mis’ Dane as I come by ; thought I’d look 
in ; and there she was, a-cryin’. I tell ye it’s too 
bad ! 

“I sh’d ’most thought ’Lizy ’d staid to the weddin’; 
most gals would,” said Mrs. Apjohn, bringing a pan of 
milk from the pantry. “ But probably she felt the ne- 


22 


Neighbors* Wives. 


cessity of doin’ somethin’ for herself ; for Abel can’t 
afford to support three women in that huuse, massy 
knows ! Fustiny ’ll have to put them perty hands o’ 
her’n into dish-water. For my -part, I don’t think she ’s 
any more fit to be Abel Dane’s wife, than you be to be 
president, John Apjohn.” 

“ To be sure, to be sure,” said John, mournfully ac- 
knowledging the force of the comparison. “ Or than 
you be,” he added, “ to be one of them circus-ridin’ wo- 
men.” And at the quaint conceit of those immense 
feminine proportions, decked out in gauze and tinsel, 
balanced upon one foot on a galloping saddle, or taking a 
fiying leap through a hoop, the solemn face of the man 
puckered into a dull, feeble smile. “ To be sure 1 ” he 
cackled. 

“ Wal, come to dinner,” said Prudence, cutting the 
bread against her bosom. 

“ Ain’t we goin’ to have nothin’ but bread and 
milk ? ” said J ohn, imploringly. 

“ Bread and milk is good enough. I couldn’t afford 
to cook anything to-day. Here’s some o’ that corned 
beef, and beautiful apple-sas.” 

“ Cold day like this, ought to have somethin’ warmin’,” 
the cooper mildly remonstrated. “ Cup o’ tea, — bile 
an egg; some sich thing.” 

“ Eggs ! when we can git thirteen cents a dozen for 
era ! ” exclaimed Prudence. 

“■ To be sure I ” And Cooper Jo in submissively took 
his seat at the uninviting board. 


Mr. Tasso Smith and the Apjohns. 23 

‘ jJid you hit the table then ? ” with a look of alarm. 

“No I ” said Prudence. “ Wasn’t it you V ” Another 
knock. 

“ There’s somebody to the front door, Prudy 1 ” gasped 
tlie little man. “ What shall we do ? ” 

“ Let ’em in, of course; they ain’t robbers this time 
o’ day,” and she tramped ponderously through the en- 
try. 

It was not robbers the cooper feared, but some dread 
messenger of fate. He was one of those timorous, 
doubting souls, to whose morbid imagination life is 
ever fall of terror and difficulty; and even so trifling an 
incident as a knock at the door has in it sometimes 
something mysterious and awful. Though the most 
harmless being in the world, he often thought, and often 
said to his wife, when a stranger rapped, “ What if that 
should be the sheriff come to tell me I am arrested for a 
murder or a forgery ! To be sure, to be sure, Prudy 1 ” 

He was slightly relieved on this occasion to hear the 
soft, simpering voice, and to see the soft, simpering face, 
of a flashily dressed young fellow, with greased hair, a 
tender moustache, a thick, unwholesome complexion, 
pimples, and a very extensive breast-pin. 

“Tasso Smith,” said Prudence, as with a curious, 
amused, half-contemptuous lifting of her brow-wrinkles, 
she ushered the grimacing phenomenon into the kitchen. 

“ Possible ! Tasso I Mr. Smith ! ” confusedly cried 
the cooper, springing to his feet, upsetting his chair be- 
hind him, and spilling the milk from the pan with the 


24 


Neighbors' Wives, 


jostle he gave the table. “ I shouldn’t have Knowed 
ye, you’ve altered so 1 ” 

The young man looked conscious of having altered 
very much to his own satisfaction; and condescendingly 
gave the cooper two fingers. 

“ Seddown, seddown,” said John, righting his chair, 
and placing it for the visitor. “ Don’t it beat all, Pru- 
dy ! — Where did you come from, Tasso — Mr. Smith ?” 
for he thought he ought to mister such a smart young 
gentleman, though he had known him from his baby- 
hood. 

“ From the city,” grimaced Tasso. 

“ To be sure, to be sure I ” repeated the cooper ; and 
regarded him wonderingly. 

“ Been makin’ money, I guess, hain’t ye, Tasso ? ” 
said practical Mrs. Apjohn. 

She stood with a shrewd sceptical smile, amusedly 
perusing him ; while before her sat Tasso, perfumed, 
pomatumed, twirling his rattan, delightfully aware that 
he was a cynosure. 

“ Managed to live.” He nodded significantly at Pru- 
dence. “ City ’s good place for enterpris’n’ young men.” 
He nodded at the cooper. “ Thought I’d come out ’n’ 
jee what I could do for the ol’ folks.” Crossing his 
legs, he thrust his rattan into a button-hole of his blue 
brass-buttoned coat, hung his hat on the toe of his 
tight-fitting patent-leather boot, and pompously pro- 
duced his pocket-book. “ I’ve called to pay — to re- 
munerate — you for them barrels pa had of you some 


Mr, Tasso Smith and the Aj>johns. 25 

time ago. Can you change a fifty-dollar bill ? ” Which 
stunning proposition he uttered as if it was one of the 
commonplaces of his life. 

Cooper John sat right down and stared. Tasso 
smoothed his moustache, and smiled. Mrs. Apjohn was 
so well pleased at the prospect of the payment of a debt 
she had long despaired of, that she began to regard the 
cynosure with more favorable eyes. 

“ I declare, Tasso, I never expected you would turn 
out so well. Ke’ly payin’ your pa’s debts, be you ? I 
remember when you used to be around, the dirtiest, rag- 
gedest boy ’t ever I see ! ” She meant this for praise; 
but it was gall to Mr. Smith. “ And now you’re payin’ 
your pa’s debts I Think o’ that^ John Apjohn I ” — in a 
tone which conveyed a triumphant reproof to the soul 
of the said J. A. ; for the worthy woman had this way 
of convicting her consort of his short-comings, by citing 
to him illustrious examples of human conduct. “ Think 
of that^ John Apjohn I ” always meant “ Now, why 
don’t you go and be a man like the rest of ’em ? ” 

“ To be sure, to be sure I ” murmured the cooper, 
feeling very much disparaged, and turning an awe- 
struck glance upon the shining paragon who was paying 
“ his pa’s debts.” “ Only ten and six, I believe, the ac- 
count is.” 

“ With interest, it’s more’n two dollars by this time,” 
struck in his wife’s strong treble. 

“ Oh, never mind interest, Prudy,” said the w^eak, 
quavering tenor. 


26 Neighbors' Wives. 

“ Y es, I will,” insisted Prudence. “ Call it two dol- 
lars, anyhow.” 

“ Sorry I hain’t got no smaller bills,” said Tasso, 
glancing over a handful of bank-notes. “ But you can 
prob’ly break a fifty.” 

John and Prudence looked at each other. Then both 
looked at the visitor. 

“ Why, if you can’t do no better,” said Prudence, 
hesitatingly, “ I don’o’ — mabby I can change it.” 

It was Tasso’s turn to be astonished, and he looked, 
for a moment, very much as if he had no large note to 
change. He reddened with embarrassment, and fum- 
bled his money, and presently began muttering, as he 
turned each bill, — 

“ Hunderd, hunderd, hunderd, — I declare I don’t 
b’lieve got a fifty — hunderd, hunderd, — thought I had 
— remember, now, paying it out. Can you break a 
0 . 1 ” And he turned on the cooper a foolish smile. 

John appealed to Prudence, and Prudence nodded 
consent. The G. was not such cold water to her as 
Tasso had hoped. 

“ Yes, I can break a 0. / ” she answered, with just 
perceptible disdain. “Though you thought it would 
break me, I guess.” 

Tasso’s smile faded ; and the effort he made to appear 
business-like and at ease, sweating over his bills and 
wiping his red, pimply face, was odd to see. Prudence 
did not give him time to raise the value of his notes to 
five hundred ; but, taking a key from the clock-case. 


Mr. Tasso Smith a 7 id the Apjohns. 27 

proceeded to an adjoining room, followed by the cooper. 
They left the door unlatched, and Tasso could hear busy 
whisperings behind it. He got up, peeped through the 
crack, and saw the thrifty couple on their knees bj’’ an 
open chest, counting money. In a little while they came 
out, and found their guest respectably seated, twirling 
his rattan, with a serious, honest face, — bank-notes and 
pocket-book having disappeared. 

“ I’ll look at your bill, if you please,” said Prudence, 
clasping a handful of money. 

“ Oh,” said Tasso, as if he had quite forgotten the 
subject, “ le’ me see ! Oh, yes ! After you went out, I 
found some small bills in my vest-pocket. Save you 
the trouble.” And, fingering the said vest-pocket, he 
brought to light a little, dirty, rolled-up rag of paper. 

“ ‘ He put in his thumb, and pulled out a plum ; and 
what a brave boy was I ! ’ ” laughed Prudence, as she 
scornfully unrolled the rag. “ Two one-dollar bills ! 
Wal, that’s what I call cornin’ down a little. Great deal 
of talk for a little bit of cider.” 

Tasso felt cheap. His game of brag, at which he had 
been so unexpectedly beaten, had cost him more pride 
and money than he could afford. He winced and sim- 
pered and switched his stick, and said, — 

“ Might gi’e me back th’ change, ’f you’re mind to, as 
pa didn’t authorize me to pay no interest.” 

That was too much for Prudence, already sufficiently 
provoked ; and she spoke hasty words, which, lodging 
like evil seed in the breast of the young man Tasso, took 


28 


Neighbors' Wives, 


root there, and grew, and in due season brought forth 
bitter fruit for the future of more than one actor in our 
drama. 

“ Idee o’ your hagglin’ ’bout a little interest money, 
arter sech a swell with your hunderd-dollar bills I ” 
(“ Come, come, Prudy I ” said her husband, deprecat- 
iiigly.) “I don’t believe you’ve got a hunderd-dollar 
bill in the world. No Smith of your breed ever had I ” 
(“ There, there, Prudy I ” said the conciliatory John.) 
“You’d no more notion o’ payin’ that debt, when you 
come into this house, than I have to fly ; and you 
wouldn’t, if I hadn’t ketched ye in a trap ye didn’t sus- 
pect.” (“ Prudy, Prudy 1 you’re sayin’ too much ! ” 
parenthesized the pale cooper.) “I ain’t sayin’ any- 
thing but the truth ; and he can afford to hear that, 
arter all the trouble he has put me to. Here’s a nine- 
pence ; I’ll divide the interest with ye, and say no more 
about it.” 

Tasso pocketed the ninepence and the affront, and, 
white with rage, yet too much afraid of the strong, in- 
dignant woman to give vent to it, just showed his 
yellow teeth, with a sickly, malicious grin, as he put on 
his hat, and went strutting under difficulties through 
the entry. 

“ I wouldn’t have had it happen, Prudy 1 ’• began the 
wretched cooper. 

“ I would I ” said Prudence, with gleaming scorn and 
triumph. “ Sich a heap of pretension I with that little 
bit of a cane, and them nasty soaplocks, and all that 


Mr. Tasso S?nith and the Afy’okns, 29 

big show of one-dollar bills I I like to come up with 
sich people I ” And she grimly counted her money ; 
while Tasso, who had heard every word she said, as 
he listened at the door, let himself out, and sneaked 
away. 

3 * 


30 


Neighbors^ Wives, 


111 . 

ABSENCE. 

It takes a woman to read a woman. A man, espe- 
cially a lover, is apt to confide too miicli in the title-page, 
namely, the face ; although, like other title-pages, this 
is often so false that its smiling promise affords scarce a 
hint, to the unsophisticated, of the actual contents of the 
volume. 

The book of beauty which Abel Dane had chosen, 
which he took out of the modest covers of maidenhood, 
and bound in bridal gilt and velvet, and placed in the 
closet of his affections, to be his inseparable companion 
and book of life, — was now to be tested. How soon 
the gilt began to tarnish, the sumptuous velvet to fade, 
the contents to belie the title, and Abel to learn how 
much better Eliza had discerned their true character at 
a glance, than he with all his admiring attention, let 
us not too closely inquire. 

There were at least two individuals that mourned 
Eliza’s departure, and could not be comforted by Faus- 
tina’s coming. One was old Mrs. Dane ; she felt that 
one of her roots of life had been severed, when her 
adopted daughter went, and that she was too old a 


Absence, 


31 


tree to put forth vigorous youug fibres to supply its 
place. 

“Wal, old friend, how do ye git along? to be sure!” 
said Cooper John, looking in upon her one day. 

“Narrowing at the heel,” smiled Mrs. Dane; then 
iaughed at herself, for she had meant to say, “ Pretty 
well, I thank you, John.” “ That's true, though, I sup- 
pose. My stocking of life is fast knitting up, and I shall 
soon be at the toe.” 

“ To be sure, yes ! ” the cooper snuflled, and produced 
his red silk handkerchief. “We shall all go soon or 
late. Dreadful changes. Heard from ’Lizy ? ” 

“ I had a wood-box from her — dear me 1 you know 
what I mean.” 

“ To be sure, a letter.” 

“ She writes she’s gone to work in the mills, and ap- 
pears to be contented ; but, oh, John I ” 

She wept ; and John wept with her ; and Turk, the 
house-dog, laid his great, shaggy head between his 
paws, and winked sympathetically; for Turk was the 
other mourner aforesaid: a faithful, grim old dog, that 
would sometimes lie down before Eliza’s vacant chair, 
and growl at any one who approached it ; or, like the 
old man in the story, go about 

“ Wandering as in quest of something, 

Something he could not find, — he knew not what;” — 

then suddenly take it into his head to bounce up stairs, 
and bark furiously at her door, as if he had at last dis« 


32 


Neighbors^ Wives, 


covered the chest in which his Ginevra was concealed. 
What was singular, not all Faustina’s attentions, — feed- 
ing him and patting him with her fair hand, — could 
flatter him into forgetting his old mistress and accepting 
a new one. 

Mrs. Dane did not fail to answer Eliza’s letter ; and 
others also wrote to her ; for she had left behind her 
many friends in the village. And now, in her lonely 
retreat, she heard again and again, how handsome Faus- 
tina was, and how much she was admired, and how 
happy Abel seemed, and what new furniture he had 
purchased, and what a gay winter they were having^, 
and how almost everybody except the joyous wedded 
pair often inquired for her, and sent love. And do you 
suppose that, as Eliza pondered these things all day, and 
day after day, to the tune of the whirling spindles, her 
sharp thoughts did not sometimes whirl too, and pierce 
into her soul ? 

So the winter passed, and the summer followed ; and 
she learned that now Abel had especial reason to be 
tender of his bride ; that he had bought a new carriage 
to drive her out in ; that, in his devotion, he spared no 
time or trouble or expense, if a whim of hers was to be 
gratified. Then 'came the intelligence which she had 
been long prepared to hear, but which, when at last she 
heard it, smote her with faintness of heart. Abel, far 
from her, forgetting her entirely, no doubt, in his sep- 
arate delight, was the father of a beautiful boy. 

How the child thrived, and grew to look like his 


Absence. 


33 


mother ; how Faustina once more flashed into society, 
which she dazzled by her beauty and jewels and dresses ; 
how envious ones reported that she was running Abel 
into debt by her extravagance ; how careworn he was 
really beginning to look ; all this, with many dark hints 
of things going wrong at home, Eliza heard during the 
two years that followed. But never, directly or indi- 
rectly, did she get one word from Abel. Others invited 
her to return to the village ; he never invited her. His 
resentment seemed eternal. And though, often and long 
after, when her life had grown less lonely, her thoughts 
would fly back to her old home, and her heart, despite 
of her, would yearn to follow, she saw ever the iron 
gates, through which she had passed, closed and barred 
behind her. 

But at length, one September evening, as she went 
home from her work, at the door of her boarding-house 
a letter was given her. 

The well-known hand-writing made her tremble so 
that she could scarcely break the seal. It was Abel’s 
hand, — changed, agitated, hurried, — but still she knew 
it well. 

This was the letter: — 

“ Come to me, Eliza. Do not remember my unkind- 
ness. Let nothing keep you. I am in great trouble. 
Come at once. Abel.” 


Terror and dread swept over her. She did not stop 


34 


Neighbors' Wives, 


to remember or to forgive. But love, like a strong 
power, seized upon her, gave her strength, and guided 
her hands, and sent her, the next day, whirling away 
upon the train that boie her back to Abel and her home. 


Mrs. A^john^s Adventure. 


35 


MRS. APJOHN’S adventure. 

And now, what stress of ill-fortune had hurried Abel 
into sending this alarming missive ? To answer which 
question, we must go back to Tasso Smith and the Ap- 
johns, and to one bright, particular Sunday in this history. 

A still, September day, with the peculiar sentiment 
of the Sabbath breathing in the air, yellowing in the 
sunshine, brooding over field and orchard almost like a 
conscious presence, and filling all the silent rooms of the 
house with its cool hush. The bells have ceased ring- 
ing ; the choirs have ceased singing ; and the naughty 
boys, sitting in the wagons under the meeting-house 
sheds, can hear far off the monotonous tones of the 
minister’s discourse. 

Abel Dane sits by his brilliant and showily-dressed 
wife in their smart pew. His mother has also, by a 
strong resolution and effort, got to church this afternoon, 
thinking it the last Sunday of the season, and perhaps the 
last Sunday of her life that she shall be able to hear the 
good old man preach. On one side of this group you 
may see the young man, Tasso Smith, occasionally strok- 
ing his moustache, with a display of finger-rings, and 


36 


Neighbors' Wives, 

casting significant glances at Faustina ; while, on the 
other, his bald pate shining in the light, sits solemn J ohn 
Apjohn, choking in black cravat, rolling up his large 
eyes at the preacher, and now and then drawing down 
the corners of his mouth with a dismal sigh. 

Prudence is not present. In the morning she can 
usually endure a sermon of reasonable length ; but in 
the afternoon it is impossible for her to avoid the sin 
of drowsiness. “ The more flesh, the more frailty.” 
And it is so mortifying to the sensitive John to have 
to keep waking her up, in order to prevent her nod- 
ding and snoring, that she has wisely resolved to spend 
her Sunday afternoons at home. 

She reads a little, sleeps a good deal, opens the till 
of the chest to see that her money is safe, and perhaps 
counts it over, then thinks of preparing supper. With 
a basket on her arm, she visits the garden for vegetables. 
She is sorry the tomatoes are poor and puny. She is 
fond of tomatoes, and involuntarily looks over the fence 
into Abel Dane’s garden, where there are bushels of 
nice, ripe ones. Before Eliza went and Faustina came, 
the Danes used to give her all the vegetables she wanted ; 
for they always had a large garden generously culti- 
vated, while she had but a poor little strip of ground, 
with only a shiftless husband to look after it. 

“Think of that, John Apjohn ! ” she says to herself. 
“ If I only had a husband that was wuth a cent I ” — 
doubtless forgetting that it is not alone John’s ineffi- 
ciency, but her own tight hold of the purse-strings, which 


Mrs. Afjohn^s Adventure. 


37 


prevents his enriching the soil in a manner to insure 
good crops. “Now, old Mis’ Dane, and Abel, too, for 
that matter, had jest as lives we’d have some of them 
tomatuses as not. It’s a pity to see ’em wasted. They 
look to me to be a-rottin’ on the ground. Anyway, 
frost’ll come and finish ’em ’fore their folks can ever use 
’em up. I’ve a good notion jest to step over and pick a 
few. They never ’d know it ; and John’ll think they 
come off ’m our own vines.” 

Up and down and all around she looks, and sees no 
eye beholding her. 

“They’ve all gone to meetin’ ’cept the baby, anl I 
see Melissy take him and carry him over to her folks’s. 
House is all shet up, I know. Only a few tomatuses. 
What’s the harm, I’d like to know ? I'm sure I’d 
ruther any one would have my tomatuses than leave ’em 
to rot on the ground. I will jest step over and take two 
or three.” 

“ Stepping over ” was a rather light and airy way of 
expressing it. Did you ever see a fat woman climb a 
fence, and didn’t laugh ? Cautiously feeling the boards 
till she finds one she has confidence in ; hugging the 
post affectionately ; tangling her knees in her skirts ; 
putting her elbows over the topmost board, and finally 
getting one foot over ; then turning around, as she 
brings up the other foot ; stopping a minute to arrange 
skirls, then getting down backwards, very much as she 
got up, — all this is in the programme. Prudence is 
not nearly so spry as a cat ; but, give her time, and she 
4 


38 


Neighbors' Wives. 


is good for any common board-fence, provided nobody i£ 
looking. She is particularly anxious, on this occasion, 
to assure herself that nobody is looking. And so the 
feat is accomplished, and she treads carefully among 
the tomatoes. 

Although purposing to pick only a few, they are so 
large and so plenty that she fills her basket almost be- 
fore she knows it. Then, it is “ sich a pity to see ’em 
wasted,” she thinks she will put two or three in her 
apron. For this is the subtlety of sin ; that a thousand 
excuses suggest themselves for taking just a little of the 
forbidden fruit ; then to add a little more to that little 
cannot really make much difterence in the oftence ; and 
so you progress by degrees in the indulgence, till you 
have not only filled your basket, but your apron also. 

Stooping, with broad back to the golden sunshine and 
blue Sabbath sky; holding up her apron with one hand, 
and loading it with the other, she is peering among the 
vines, when suddenly she is startled by a harsh growl. 
In great fright she looks up and sees Turk bristling be- 
fore her. 

“ Massy sakes I why, Turk I don’t you know me ? ” 

“ Gur-r-r-r ! ” answers Turk. 

“Dear me ! ” gasps Prudence. “You never acted so 
before, Turk I You never barked at me I Come, doggy I 
poor fellow ! poor fellow I ” 

She reaches out her hand coaxingly, and the brute 
snaps at it. Then the soul of the woman grows sick 
within her, and her knees shake. Eight before her 


Mrs, A^john^s Adventure. 39 

stands the red-eyed, snarling monster, — between her and 
the fence, between her and her basket ; and what shall 
she do ? 

“ Turk, it’s me, Turk I your old friend, doggy I ” she 
tells him. 

“ Can’t help it ! ” plainly answers doggy, deep in his 
thundering throat. 

But he won’t dare to bite her, she thinks. And, if she 
dies for it, she must get out of the garden before the folks 
come from meeting. She makes a charge at her basket. 
Turk meets her with a terrific leap and snarl, and seizes 
her apron with his teeth. Involuntarily screaming, she 
retreats. She clings to the apron with her hands, he 
with his jaws. She pulls one way, he tugs the other. 
The string breaks. Prudence loses her hold of the 
apron, and falls in the entangling tomato-vines. Turk 
goes back upon his haunches, with the captured apron 
in his teeth. 

“ I never, never I Oh, dear, dear I What shall I do ? 
what shall I do ? ” splutters Prudence, as she disen- 
gages her feet from the vines, feels the smashed tomatoes 
under her, gets up, and still sees Turk, with her apron 
and basket, between her and the fence. And now she 
thinks she hears the carriages coming from meeting. 

The impulse is to run. And leave her basket and 
apron in possession of the enemy ? No, they must be 
brought off from the battle-field at all hazards. Pru- 
dence is wild, or she would never dare advance again to 
the contest. Turk waits till she has reached the apron- 


40 


Neighbors' Wives, 


string, and begun to pull it gently, when, once more 
considering it time to assume the offensive, he gives a 
bound, rescues the rag, hurls her backwards to the 
ground, and seats himself beside her, with his fore 
paws on her dress, and his red tongue, white teeth, hot 
breath, and ferocious eyes close to her face. She does 
not scream ; she does not attempt to rise ; for when she 
stirs, his growl reverberates in her ear, and she feels his 
moist muzzle wetting her throat. 

A sad predicament for a respectable woman, isn’t it ? 
Oh, what would she give if she had only stayed in her 
own garden, and never cast covetous eyes at her neigh- 
bor’s ? If she only had her apron and basket safe and 
empty the other side of the fence, would she ever, ever 
do such a thing again ? Kever, never ! 

“ Turk, Turk, good doggy ! ” she pleads, in her des- 
peration, “ do let me go ! Only this time, Turk ! I 
never will agin I Please do, that’s a nice dog, now ! ” 
But the inexorable Turk glares over her, looking greed- 
ily up the road, and listening, not to her entreaties, but 
to the sound of the approaching wheels. And there we 
may as well leave her, for the present, to her int( resting 
reflections. 


Cooler John to the Rescue. 


41 


V. 

COOPER JOHK TO THE RESCUE. 

The meetings are indeed out; the wagons have begun 
to go by, and now the feet of scattered pedestrians clatter 
along the wooden village sidewalks. A happy throng ! 
they who ride and they who walk; those in fine silks 
and broadcloth, and those in cheap prints and homespun ; 
verily all are blessed whom the sun shines upon this 
day, except one. If you are not lying on your back 
among your neighbor’s vines, with your neighbor’s 
watch-dog growling at your throat, what more felicity 
can you desire ? 

There goes, with the rest, the sweet youth, Tasso 
Smith, elegantly strutting. If he but knew I Behind 
him — curious contrast! — walks the meek John Ap- 
john, choking in his Sunday cravat, winking over it, 
ever and anon, with his melancholy eyes, and screwing 
his mouth into a serious one-sided twist, as he goes pon- 
dering awful things. He passes within a stone’s throw 
of the crushed tomatoes, whose juice is oozing out from 
under Mrs. Apjohn’s unhappy shoulder-blades, but sees 
not the pleasing sight for the intervening cabbages. 

4* 


^2 


Neighbors^ Wives, 


And now Prudence, where she lies, can hear the famil- 
iar sound of her own gate slammed. John has got home. 

“ To be sure, Prudy 1 ” begins the cooper, as he enters 
the house, carefully laying off his black hat the first 
thing, and giving it a final polish with his red silk before 
putting it away for the week. “ Them was two dreadful 
good sermons to-day. Desperate smart man, old Mr. 
Hard well, — as feeling a preacher as ever I sot under. 
You should have heard him dwell upon the vanities of 
this world this arternoon ! All our pride and selfishness, 
and what we call the good things of life, where’ll they 
all be in a few years ?” he said. “ You ought to have 
heard him, Prudy; to be sure ! to be sure ! ” 

Indeed, Prudy would give anything just now if she 
had heard him; even if she were but present to hear her 
worthy John ! How free-hearted and beatified^ she 
would feel if she were at this moment taking off her silk 
dress after church, instead of spoiling her calico gown 
down there among the tomatoes ! 

“ Why, where be you, Prudy ? ” says John, entering 
the bedroom; for he had surely thought she was there, 
not finding her in the kitchen. Still not much alarmed, 
he takes off his Sunday coat and cravat ; and having 
laid the one away in a drawer, and hung the other up in 
the closet, he feels more comfortable. “Prudy,” he 
calls, “ are you there ? ” putting his polished little head 
up the unanswering stair-way. 

No Prudence in the house, no Prudence in the gar- 
den, where her husband looks next. What can it all 


Cooj>er John to the Rescue, 


43 


mean ? It is one of those little mysteries that appall the 
imaginative John. He remembers that the back-door of 
the house was open when he came in. The stove is 
filled with fuel just ready to kindle. A fresh pail of 
water has been drawn. The cloth is on the table. But 
where is Mrs. Apjohn ? Pale, at the wood-pile, the 
cooper stands and startles the Sabbath stillness by feebly 
trilling her name. 

Pru-d-u-n-ce I ” 

“ D-u-n-ce ! ” echoes Abel Dane’s shop, as if it were 
laughing at him. 

But what is that ? Another voice ! a faint, far-off, 
stifled scream. 

“ John ! John ! help I ” 

“ Where be ye ? ” cries the terrified John. 

“ Here ! ” says the voice. 

It sounds as if it were in the well. Prudence in the 
well ! In an instant' the cooper’s vivid fancy pictures 
that excellent and large-sized woman fallen, head-fore- 
most and heels upward, into the deep and narrow 
cavity. How can she ever be got out ? A rope tied 
round her heels and several men strenuously hoisting, is 
the image which flashes through his brain. He is at the 
curb in a second; peering fearfully in, with his eyes 
shaded by his hands; but making no discovery there, ex- 
cept the silhouette of himself projected black upon the 
glimmering reflection of the sky in the placid water. 

“ John I come quick ! ” calls the muffled voice again. 

On the roof of the house this time 1 How came Pru- 


44 


Neighbors' Wives. 


dence on the roof of the house ? To run over to Abel 
Dane’s and borrow a long carpenter’s ladder is John’s 
first thought. To get a good view of the roof, his next. 
To this end he hastens down into the garden, and is 
standing on tiptoe to discover Prudence on the ridge- 
pole, when once more calls the voice, this time unmistak- 
ably behind him , — 

“ Where be ye ? and what’s the matter ? ” gasps the 
cooper, gazing all around in vain. 

“ Here I am, and you’ll see what’s the matter. Don’t 
make no noise, but come as quick as you can, and git 
away this horrid dog ! ” 

Then John Apjohn, rushing to the fence, sees Ihe 
prostrate woman, and sedentary dog, and the guilty to- 
matoes, — some in the apron and basket, and some on 
the ground. He clings to the fence, bareheaded, in his 
shirt-sleeves, white as any cheese-curd, by trembling and 
ghastliness quite overcome, and uttering not a word. 

“ Quick, I say 1 ” cries Prudence on her back. “ Take 
off* this dog, and I’ll tell ye all about it by’m’by.” 

Over the fence tumbles the astonished cooper. But 
to take off* the dog is not so easy a matter. Turk is 
averse to being taken off*. He glares and growls and 
snaps at the little man, as if he would swallow him. 

“ I can’t, Prudy 1 ” falters John, retreating. 

“ Ketch right hold of him I ” commands Prudence, 
“Choke him I pull him ! ” 

“I da’sn’t ! ” articulates John. 


Cooler John to the Rescue, 45 

“ If I had a man for a husband ! ” exclaimed Pru- 
dence. “ Git a club 1 Kill the brute ! ” 

“To be sure I to be sure ! ” and John starts to find a 
club. There is a pole leaning on an apple-tree near by. 
He secures it, and hurries back to stir up Turk. The 
combat begins, with John at one end of the pole and 
Turk at the other. Turk seizes his end with his teeth; 
John holds his in his hands; and there they stand. 
Turk growls to make John let go; John shooes and ste- 
hoys to make Turk let go. 

“ Pull it away from him I ” exclaims Prudence. 

John pulls till he has dragged the dog half across the 
good woman’s waist, when, as it would seem, the saga- 
cious brute, seeing a chance for a fine strategic effect, 
suddenly releases his grip, and leaves the pole with the 
cooper, who loses his balance, staggers backward rap- 
idly,- and sits down, with his Sunday trousers, in an 
over-ripe muskmelon. 

“Now take the pole,” says the commander-in-chief^ 
“ and knock him on the head with it, hard I ” 

“ I shall hit you ! ” utters J ohn. 

“ Never mind me I ” says the resolute Prudy. 

Up goes the pole, unsteadily and slow. 

“ Keady ? ” says John. 

“Yes; strike!” 

And down comes the heavy, unwieldy weapon. Turk 
sees it descending to damage him, and considers it hon- 
orable, under the circumstances, to dodge. He is out 
of the way before the radius has passed through one 


46 


Neighbors^ Wives. 


half the arc; but the momentum of the stroke is such 
that it is impossible for the cooper to stay his hold; and 
the blow alights upon Mrs. Apjohn’s stomach. 

‘‘ Ugh ! ” says Mrs. Apjohn. 

“Now I’ve killed ye!” exclaims John, despairingly, 
throwing away the weapon. 

“ Don’t ye know no better’n to be murderin’ me ’stid 
of the dog ? ” cries Prudy. 

“ I didn’t mean to 1 ” murmurs the wretched man. 
“ Broke any ribs, think ? ” 

“ I don’t care for my ribs, if I could only — Oh, dear ! 
why can’i ye beat off this dog ? Empty out them to- 
rn atuses, and throw the basket over the fence, anyway. 
And give me my apron. Quick 1 ” 

But Turk, also, has something to say about that. 
Neither apron nor basket shall John touch; they are 
confiscated. 

“How come the tomatuses in the basket? in your 
apron ? ” asks the cooper. “ O Prudy, Prudy I To be 
sure ! to be sure 1 ” 

“Wall wall wall” chafes the impatient woman. 
“ I s’pose I’m to lay here till doomsday, or till Abel’s 
folks come home. There they come now, — don’t 
they ? ” 

“Yes,” answers the cooper. “They’re late, on the 
old lady’s account. I’ll tell Abel to come and call off 
his dog.” 

“ Don’t ye for the world ! Squat right down; mabby 
they wont see us I ” 


Cooler yohn to the Rescue, 


47 


“What! ye don’t re’ly mean to say you — you’ve 
been — hooking the tomatuses?” For hitherto John 
has indulged a feeble hope that the affair could be hon- 
orably explained. 

“ Squat down, I say I ” And John squats, hugging 
his knees, with his chin between them, — as ludicrous a 
picture of dismay and terror as was ever seen. He 
feels like a thief; he knows he looks like a thief; and 
the storm of calamity and disgrace, which he has im- 
agined impending above his little bare, bald head so 
long, he is sure is now going to burst. 

And there the three wait, — Turk guarding both his 
prisoner and the prizes; for the basket and apron are so 
near that he can protect them without letting Prudence up. 

“Prudy I ” whispers John. 

What I ” mutters Prudy. 

“ It’s dreadful I it’s dreadful I ” moans John. 

“ Hold your tongue ! ” says Prudy. 

The cooper sinks his chin still lower between his knees, 
sighing miserably. 

“ Prudy 1 ” — after a long pause. 

“ What do you want now ? ” 

“I wish you’d gone to meetin’ this arternoon, Prudy I ” 

“ You can’t wish so any more’n I do 1 ” 

“ If you had only heard that sermon, Prudy 1 ” 

Stop your noise about the sermon ! ” 

Another long pause. 

“ Prudy I ” 

“ Well I what ? ” 


48 


Neighbors' Wives, 


“ I wish I was dead 1 — don’t you ? ” 

“ I wish this dog was dead I ” 

Upon which, to convince them that he is not nor any- 
thing like it, Turk begins to bark. 

“ It’s all over now I ” says Prudence. 

John feels that there is nothing left him but suicide. 
He can never confront Abel Dane after this; so he looks 
about him for something on which to beat out his brains. 
No convenient and comfortable object for the purpose 
meets his eye, but a good big squash. And before he 
has time to consider which may prove the softer of the 
two, his pate or the vegetable, in case of a collision, he 
hears a foot in the grass. He twists his neck around on 
his shoulders, as he crouches, softly turns up his timid 
glance over the cabbages, and beholds the dreaded vis- 
age of Abel Dane. 

Abel stops and gazes, too much amazed to speak. 
Turk wags his tail, and looks wistfully for approbation 
of his exploit. 

“ Come here, Turk ! ” says the severe voice of Abel. 

With ill-concealed misgivings, Turk takes his paws oft" 
his captive’s calico, drops his head between his fore legs, 
and his tail between his hind legs, and cringes at his 
master’s feet. 

Cooper John, having once turned round his head, 
softly turns it back again, and sits as still, in his former 
toad-like posture, as if he had seen the face of a Gorgon, 
with the old-fashioned result. Only the rear slope of his 
little, shining bald crown, his broad, striped suspenders 


Cooler John to the Rescue. 


49 


crossed behind over the back of his clean Sunday shirt, 
and a section of the Sunday trousers, bearing the im- 
print of the aforesaid over-ripe melon, are visible to the 
wondering eyes of Abel. 

As for Prudence, she loses ho time, but gathers her- 
self up as soon as Turk permits, and begins hurriedly 
to shake and brush her gown. 

“ Wal, Abel Dane, this is a pooty sight for Sunday, 
I ’spose you think I And so it is I ” flirting violently, 
and speaking as if he had done her an injury. “ And I 
want to know, now, if you think it’s neighborly to keep 
a brute like that, to tear folks to pieces that jest set a 
foot on to your premises ? For here he’s kep’ me 
groanin’ on my back an hour, if he has a minute.” Then, 
turning sharply to her husband: “John Apjohn ! what 
are ye shirkin’ there for ? ” 

Thus summoned, the petrified man limbers, and rises 
slowly upon his miserable feet; glancing, with those 
woe-begone, large eyes of his, first at his wife, then at 
Abel Dane, and lastly at the filched tomatoes. 

“ I am sorry,” says Abel, “ if my dog has put you to 
any inconvenience. He didn’t bite you, I hope 1 ” 

“No! well for him!” exclaims Prudence, red and 
embarrassed, but trying still to pass the affair off* with a 
brave air. “The fact is jest this, Abel Dane: if you 
begrutch me a few tomatuses, it’s what your father never 
done before ye, and I never expected it of you; and I’ll 
cheerfully pay you for ’em, if you’ll accept of any pay; 
and my husband here knows I only jest stepped over 
5 


Neighbors^ Wives, 


SO 

the fence to save a few that was bein’ wasted, which i 
thought was sech a pity, and you’d jest as lives we’d 
have ’em; and I meant all the time to tell ye I took 
some, when that plaguy dog 1 ” — 

Here, having poured forth these words in a wild and 
agitated manner, the worthy woman broke down, and 
wept and sobbed, and continued confusedly to brush her 
gown. John stood by and groaned. 

“Well, well, neighbors,” said Abel, “you’re quite 
welcome to the tomatoes. I haven’t known what I 
should do with ’em all, and I’m glad to get rid of ’em. 
If you had come in through the gate, Turk wouldn’t 
have meddled, with you.” 

As he spoke, kindly and consolingly. Prudence only 
cried the more, and blindly flirted her skirts while 
John, wretchedly bent, with a supplicating countenance, 
approached his neighbor. 

“ Abel Dane,” said he, in a voice scarcely audible, it 
was so weak and hoarse, “ me and you’ve knowed each 
other ever sence you was a child, and I knowed your 
father ’fore ever you was born; and I believe I’ve al- 
ways had an honest name with you till now.” 

“And so you have now, Mr. Apjohn,” said Abel, 
cheeringly. “Don’t let a little thing like this trouble 
you. I understand you,” — and he shook the cooper’s 
helpless, cold hand with genuine cordiality. 

“ Thank ye, thank ye; to be sure ! ” murmured John. 
I am an honest man; and, though things don’t look jest 
right, I own, yet you know. Abel Dane, I’d no more be 


Cooj>er yohn to the Rescue, 51 

guilty of takin’ anything that didn’t belong to me than 
I would cut my own head off.” 

Abel, pitying him sincerely, and seeing well enough 
that this poor, shaking creature was innocent, whoever 
was guilty, assured him again and again of his confi- 
dence and good-will. 

“ Thank ye, thank ye; to be sure, to be sure I ” said 
John, gratefully, hunting in vain in his pockets and on 
the ground for his red silk handkerchief to wipe his 
eyes with. “ And, if ’twon’t be too much, I’ve one 
request to make. ’Twould make talk if it should be 
known, and we would never hear the last on’t, probably; 
and I’d ruther die at once than be pinted at.” 

“ I promise you,” interrupted Abel, “ nobody shall 
ever hear of it from me. Never fear; you won’t be 
pointed at. Now let’s say no more about the matter. 
Here are yovr tomatoes, Mrs. Apjohn; and, whenever 
you want any more, you’ve only to come in through the 
gate and get them.” 

“I declare!” gulped the woman; “I’ve no words, 
• Abel I And, if you will be so kind as never to mention 
it. I’ll be so much obleeged 1 ” 

“ I never will. So that’s settled.” And Abel hurried 
them away; for he saw Faustina approaching. 

John took the basket of tomatoes, heavily against his 
will, and Prudence, with a sick heart, gathered up her 
apron with its original contents; for it would not do to 
refuse the gift which she was willing to take before it 
was given. And so, dejected and chagrined, making 


52 


Neighbors^ Wives. 


sickly attempts to utter their thanks to Abel and to be 
civil to Faustina, who came out, splendid in silk, and 
stared at them, the cooper and his wife departed through 
the gate, and went home to their waiting, vacant house, 
every room of which seemed conscious of the shame 
that had befallen them, and the very atmosphere to be 
heavy and depressed therewith. 


Sunday Evening at AbeVs, 


53 


VI. 

SUNDAY EVENING AT ABEL’S. 

“Abel,” said the astonished Faustina, “what has 
happened to Mrs. Apjohn ? ” 

The cooper and his wife were hardly yet out of hear- 
ing, and, as Abel walked slowly toward his own door, 
with the beautiful face in the beautiful bonnet by his 
side, he shook his head and was silent. 

“ Who told them they could have the tomatoes ? ” 
Faustina insisted. 

“ I did,” said Abel. 

“ But what has she been down in the dirt for ? And 
what makes ’em both look so like death ? Come, I am 
dying to know 1 ” 

Faustina had one of those restless minds which crave 
excitement, and which, having no solid food of thought 
or occupation, keep the appetite of curiosity continually 
whetted for such slight morsels of village gossip as you, 
of course, sage reader, hold in disdain. Abel saw at 
once how difficult it would be to hide the secret from 
her. 

“You didn’t give them liberty to take the tomatoes, 
— did you ? ” she questioned, suspiciously. 

5 * 


54 


Neighbors^ Wives, 


“Yes,” said he, resolving to trust her, and relying 
upon her discretion. “ Mrs. Apjohn had got a little the 
start of me, however, and helped herself before I came.” 

“ Stealing ! ” ejaculated Faustina. 

“ Absurd I ” answered Abel. “ She intended, of course, 
to tell us what she had done; but, unluckily, Turk in- 
terfered, and rather disconcerted the poor woman by 
keeping her on her back, as she declares, a full hour.” 

The handsome face grew excited. 

“ But it was stealing I What right had she ? Such 
people ought to be exposed at once, and made an exam- 
ple of.” 

“ On the contrary, my dear, I look upon it as a very 
unfortunate affair. The less said about it the better, 
and I pledged my word to them never to speak of it.” 

“You did, did you!” said Faustina, indignantly. 
“ The idea of letting a thief off that way 1 ” 

Abel sighed, as he did very often lately; and the 
weary, care-worn look he gave his wife was nothing 
new. 

“ I don’t think she meant to steal, I tell you,” he said, 
with some impatience. “ And if she did, I wouldn’t tell 
of it. What should I ruin a poor woman’s reputation 
for, when it is probable she never did such a thing before, 
and would never do it again ? ” 

“ You are mighty easy with such folks, seems to me. 
For my part, I am not. I say they ought to be pun- 
ished.” 

“Let him that is without sin, cast a stone; I will not. 


Sunday Evening at AbePs, 


55 


It isn’t at all likely,” added Abel, “ that you or I will 
ever be tempted to commit so foolish a trespass. But 
are we never guilty of anything we need to be forgiven 
for ? In this case, if only for Cooper John’s sake, I 
would hush up the affair. I pity him from the bottom of 
my heart. His wife might survive an exposure, but 
it would kill him. So remember that my word is 
pledged.” 

Faustina sneered. She was not so very beautiful 
then. And as Abel looked at her, he saw, as he had seen 
many times before when he had refused to credit his 
perceptions, that there was no beauty of soul, no inform- 
ing loveliness, in that fair shape; and that hers was a 
shallow, selfish, merely brilliant face at the best. 

They entered the house, — a far more showy dwelling 
now than when Eliza left it, but to Abel a home no 
longer. The atmosphere of comfort and content was 
wanting. For houses, like individuals, have their atmos- 
phere, and a sensitive soul entering your abode can dis- 
cern, before he speaks with its inmates, whether harmony 
and blessedness dwell there, or whether it is the lodging 
of discord and mean thoughts. 

Proud and stern as he was, Abel could not hide from 
himself how much he missed his foster-sister. He 
missed that even and gentle management of his house- 
hold affairs, which he had never known how to prize 
until her place was filled by an extravagant wife and 
wasteful servants. He felt the need of her sympathy 
and counsel in the worldly troubles that were thickening 


Neighbors' Wives, 


56 

upon him ; for, somehow, he could never open his heart 
on these subjects to Faustina. The holes in his socks, 
the wandering shirt-buttons, the heavy bread, the want 
of neatness and order from cellar to garret, reminded 
him daily of his loss. In his mother’s face he saw, un- 
der a thin veil of cheerfulness, perpetual sorrow for 
Eliza’s absence. When he came home to his meals, he 
thought of the tender spirit that had welcomed him 
once. And in the evening he remembered with regret 
the books they used to read together. Faustina did not 
like to read, and no book had power to interest her, un- 
less it were one of those high- wrought fictions, romances 
of unreal life, which disgusted Abel. 

What she liked was company. Every evening, to 
please her, they must go out somewhere, or have callers 
and cards at home, and the small talk of some such nice 
young man as Tasso Smith. Abel hated Tasso Smith. 

“ I like him,” Faustina would say, with a little toss of 
her head, which added, as plainly as words could do, 
“ and that settles it.” 

So Tasso, when he was in town, frequently favored 
the Danes with his choice company. Faustina expects 
him this Sabbath evening. She is irritable and restless. 

“ Go to your father, do 1 ” she says to little Ebby, who 
is pulling her dress, and begging to be taken up. Grief 
swells the baby face at the repulse; and he hastens for 
refuge and comfort to his father’s bosom. 

And now, suddenly, having had a glimpse of a visitor 
from the window, Faustina’s discontented brow lights 


Sunday Evening at AbeVs, 


57 


up. Abel’s countenance, a moment since, gentle and 
tender, darkens as suddenly when the nice young man 
walks in. 

“ Goin’ by, thought I’d look in, see how you liked 
the disquisition ’s aft’noon,” says Tasso, munching his 
words and grimacing. 

“ I do wish the minister wouldn’t have so much to say 
about extravagance in dress 1 ” exclaims Faustina. 

“If we can’t go to heaven in decent clo’es, what’s 
the use ? ” says Tasso, stroking the moustache, and 
showing the finger-rings. 

“ Besides,” adds the lady, “ I don’t think the dresses 
in our society are much to brag of, anyway. Taken as 
a set, they are the homeliest women, and the worst 
dressed women I ever saw.” 

“One or two ’xceptions, could mention,” responds 
Tasso, with a flattering simper. 

“ There’s Mrs. Grasper’s bonnet, — what a fright ! ” 

“ That’s so I Looks like a last year’s bird’s nest, 
feathers left in. Do to go with her shawl, though. Same 
shawl Grasper used last winter for a hoss-blanket; ’pon 
my honor; hi, hi, hi I ” giggles Mr. Smith, twisting his 
ear-locks. “How je like the disquisition, t’-day ?” pat- 
ronizingly, to the old lady. 

She smiled placidly, and, struggling a moment with 
her organs of speech, which refused at first to articulate, 
she observed, — 

“ ‘ Withdraw thy foot from thy neighbor’s house, lest 
he be weary of thee,’ ” 


Neighbors^ Wives, 


S8 

The text happened to be in her mind, and when she 
opened her mouth to give Tasso a civil answer, it leaped 
out. She tried to catch it, but it was gone. And it 
seemed such a decided hit at Tasso, that he could do 
nothing but look confused and silly, while Faustina red- 
dened with resentment, and Abel just lifted his eyebrows 
with a smile of surly humor. 

“ Excuse me, Mr. Squash,” the kind old lady hastened 
to say. That did not mend the matter; and she frowned 
and shook her head at herself with good-natured impa- 
tience. “ Mr. Smith 1 — there, now I’ve got it ! I meant 
to say, I think the minister gave us, this afternoon, one 
of his very best fricassees — no — what is the worif? ” 

“ Sermons, I call them,” said Abel. “ Tasso calls them 
disquisitions.” 

“ One of the best sermons I ever heard,” added the 
old lady; “ and probably the last I shall ever hear.” 

“ Old Deacon Judd ’peared to like it,” said Tasso, ral- 
lying. “ Je see his mouth stand open ? Ye c’d ’a’ drove 
in a good-sized carriage, and turned around. — Fricas- 
sees ! ” he whispered aside to Faustina, and tittered. 

“ Mrs. Judd’s ribbons took my eye I ” said Faustina. 

“ They look like pine shavings nailed to a well-sweep I ” 
added Tasso. “Ye mind what a long neck she’s got? 
Most extensive curvical appendage, ye und’stand, they 
is in town. Comes by stretching it up every Sunday 
so’s’t she can hear the minister; deaf, I ’spose. It’s so 
long a’ready, she has to get up on to a barrel to tie her 
bunnit.” He whispered again, “ Fricassees 1 ” and 
snickered as before. 


Sunday Evening at AbeVs, 59 

Abel, weary of this unworthy Sunday-evening talk, 
and perceiving that his mother was a subject of ridicule, 
felt his wrath boiling up within him. 

“ Jim Locke’s bought him a melodeon,” was the next 
theme started by Tasso. 

“ What for ? He never can learn to play I ” 

“ He ? no ! soft I Think of Jim Locke with a melo- 
deon, Abel I ” 

“ And why not ? ” sternly demanded Abel. 

“Pshaw!” said Tasso; “he don’t want a melodeon, 
more’n a dog wants a walking-stick.” 

“ And why shouldn’t a dog have a walking-stick, as 
well as a puppy ? ” And Abel glanced contemptuously 
at Mr. Smith’s rattan. 

Melissa, the servant, now came to help the old lady to 
bed; performing, as well as such unsympathizing hands 
could, the task which always painfully reminded both 
Abel and his mother of Eliza. And now, Abel, full of 
ire and spleen, arose and left the room, hugging little 
Ebby in his arms. 

“ Crusty t’-night. What’s the matter ? ” whispered 
Tasso. 

“I don’t know. Nothing pleases him,” sighed Faus- 
tina. 

“ Don’t believe that, now.” 

“ Don’t believe it ? why ? ” 

“ ’Cause,” simpered the eloquent youth, “ there ain’t a 
man in the world you can’t please, though he was as 
cross as seven bears.” 


6o 


Neighbors^ Wives, 


She sighed again, and regarded her visitor gratefully. 

“ Did you ever see such a tiresome old woman ? 
Don’t care if I do say it I ” she exclaimed. “ And he 
thinks I ought to be thankful for the privilege of having 
her in the house.” 

“ Fricassees ! ” said Tasso. 

“ He don’t like company, and thinks I ought to settle 
down and be a dull old woman with her, and never see 
anybody else from one year’s end to the other.” The 
pretty face pouted. “ In such a stupid place as this 1 ” 

“Ought to be thankful for such near neighbors.” 
Tasso never neglected an opportunity to speak dispar- 
agingly of the Apjohns. “ Interesting 1 I could tell a 
story I ” 

“ So could I.” Faustina laughed. “ Some of our 
neighbors are extravagantly fond of tomatoes.” 

“Do tell! How fond?” 

“Oh, enough so that they don't mind getting over 
fences into other folks’ gardens, and helping them- 
selves ! ” 

“You don’t say I ” cried Tasso, eagerly. 

“ Of course I don’t; for I was told not to. And you 
mustn’t let Abel know I’ve hinted a word about it, nor 
any one else. What do you suppose we found when we 
came home from meeting to-day ? ” 

“ Something funny, I bet I Give us the story 1 
Come ! ” 

“Will you give me yours ? You said you could tell 
one.” 


Sunday Eve^iing at AbePs, ti 

Tasso promised. 

“But then,” laughed Faustina, “Abel charged me 
strictly not to mention how we found Mrs. Apjohn on 
her back among the tomatoes, her apron and basket 
well filled, and honest Turk holding her down, while 
John skulked behind the cabbages.” 

Tasso was so delighted that he jumped up, clapped 
his hands, and laughed with unbounded glee. 

“ Oh, that’s too good ! it kills me I Oh, no I I’ll never 
mention it, if you say so. But wouldn’t I have been 
tickled to have been there ? ” 

“ Now, what’s your story ? ” 

“I don’t dare to tell it now; you won’t believe me. 
You won’t believe these poor people, who steal their 
neighbor’s tomatoes, are — misers I ” whispered Tasso. 

“Nonsense I ” 

“ It’s so, I tell ye. Perfect misers I Kich as Jews I 
Keep a pile of money in the house all the time, and no- 
body knows how much more in the bank I ” 

“ How do you know that ? ” 

“I’ll tell ye. ’Bout the time you was married, — 
united in the bonds of high menial blessedness, y’un- 
derstand, with your amiable consort, — hem ! — ’bout 
that time I’d just come out fr’m the city, toler’ble flush, 
so I thought I’d look into Apjohn’s and pay him some 
money father was owing him, — compensation for work, 
ye know. Well, so happened I had some large bills; 
and so I thought I’d bother Cooper John a little, and 
asked him to change a C., — y’understand, a hunderd. 

6 


62 


Neighbors^ Wives. 


By George ! I never was so surprised ’s I was when 
Mrs. Apjohn took a key from the clock-case, and went 
into the bedroom, and, after jingling silver and counting 
bills there for five minutes, brought out change for my 
hunderd-dollar note 1 It’s so,” said Tasso, as Faustina 
appeared incredulous. “ I never told on’t before, fear 
somebody ’d rob the old misers. Kow, by George, since 
they’ve hooked your tomatoes, I don’t care whether 
they get robbed or not 1 I can tell you just where they 
keep their treasure,” — and Tasso specified the chest- till. 

“Yes,” said Faustina, “very pleasant weather in- 
deed,” as Abel, having tucked Ebby away in his crib, 
reentered the room and sat down. 


r 


Mr, SmitKs JTriend's Jewels, 


<>3 


YII. 

MR. smith’s friend’s JEWELS. 

More than one cause was operating, that Sunday 
evening, to make Abel appear, as Tasso expressed it, 
crusty. The cheerlessness of his home was nothing 
new. These frivolities of the evening had long since 
usurped the place of the good old-fashioned readings 
and social comforts. He had become accustomed to 
seeing Faustina’s features light up with animation at 
the silly conceits of Mr. Smith, and he was not jealous. 
But now there was a new burden on his mind; his pe- 
cuniary troubles were culminating. Hot long after his 
marriage he had been obliged to mortgage his house. 
Since then his debts had been constantly increasing. 
He had many times been sorely pushed to meet his lia- 
bilities; but never had he seen a darker week before 
him than this w^hich was coming. 

He slept little that night. Monday dawned. After a 
light slumber, the gray morning beam stole in upon 
him, and with it came the thought of the payments 
which he could devise no means of making. A tide ol 
restlessness tossed him. He looked at the beautiful be- 


64 neighbors' Wives. 

ifig by his side. She was sleeping a heavy, most un- 
spiritual sleep. 

“ Oh I if she would only sympathize with me and help 
me,” thought Abel, “ I could bear anything; but she 
doesn’t care. I have been too indulgent to her; I could 
refuse her nothing, and so I am deep in debt.” He 
glanced at their sleeping child. “For your sake, little 
one, I will be a braver and stronger man in future I ” 

He arose. His movements in the room awoke Faus- 
tina. 

“ A re you going, Abel ? ” 

“ I have a hard week’s work before me, and I must 
begin it,” he answered. 

“ O Abel ! I don’t feel very well, and I don’t know as 
I shall get up to breakfast; but can’t you leave me a 
little money before you go ? ” 

“ How much ? ” 

“ Oh, ten, or fifteen, or twenty dollars, — I don't care.” 

A bitter smile contorted Abel’s face. “ For what ? ” 
he asked. 

“ I am going into the village, by-and-by, and' I always 
see so many things I want; and I haven’t had any money 
to spend for myself for ever so long. I must have me a 
dress right away,” she said complainingly. 

“Don’t you know well enough,” demanded Abel, 
“ that I am harassed almost to death with money-mat- 
ters already ? Haven’t I told you that I have no more 
idea than a man in his grave how I am to raise half 


Mr, Smith's Friendis Jewels, 65 

enough to pay what must he paid this week ? And you 
talk to me of new dresses 1 ” 

When he was gone, Faustina consoled herself with 
the reflection that he was the cruelest husband and she 
the most injured wife in the world; sighed to think she 
couldn’t have a new dress immediately, and went to 
sleep again. 

For three days Abel struggled manfully with the 
obstacles in his way; and when his utmost was done, he 
wanted still a hundred dollars to make up the neces- 
sary amount. A small sum to you, flush reader, but an 
immense one at that time to Abel ]'>ane. But on the 
fourth day he entered the house with tears of joy in his 
eyes. 

“ What good news ? ” asked his m.other. 

“ A miracle I ” exclaimed Abel. “ I will never lose 
my faith in Providence again. Just as my last re- 
sources were exhausted, and I had given up all hope, 
what should come to me, in a blank envelope from Bos- 
ton, but a draft for a hundred dollars ! ” 

Faustina, who had not yet got over the feeling that he 
was an inhuman husband and she an injured wife, and 
did not neglect to manifest, by her morose conduct, how 
nuich she was aggrieved, was almost surprised out of 
her sulkiness by this strange announcement. 

“ Who sent it ? ” she inquired. 

“I have not the remotest suspicion; but whoever he 
iray be, he has saved me from ruin.” 

Whilst he was putting the draft away in the drawei 
6 * 




66 


Neighbors^ Wives, 


which contained the money he had raised, and his 
mother was inwardly offering up a prayer of thankful- 
ness for this favor to her son, Faustina was saying to 
herself, “Well, I should think he might let me have a 
new dress now, if I have to run in debt for it.” 

Poor Faustina ! let us not blame her too severely. 
Her beauty was her misfortune. It was that which had 
spoiled her. From her childhood, flattery and the un- 
wise indulgence uf over-careful friends, had instilled 
into her the pernicious belief that she was the fairest and 
choicest of God’s creatures, and that it was the duty of 
everybody to administer to her pleasures, while it was 
her privilege to think only of herself. She had never in 
her life known what it was to make a sacriflce. The 
blessed habit of helping others, — of forgetting one’^ own 
happiness in caring for the happiness of others, — this 
unfortunately fortunate beauty had never learned. No 
doubt she had in her soul germs of noble womanhood, 
which affliction, and wise kindness on the part of her 
teachers, might have developed. But, as it was, she had 
grown up to be a child still, with the proportions of a 
woman, unreasonable, self-willed, with a mind undisci- 
plined, and impulses uncontrolled. 

That forenoon Tasso Smith called. He found Faus- 
tina with her hair in curl-papers. 

“ Got sumthin’ t’ show ye ; sumthin’ nice, or I 
wouldn’t have took the trouble. How’s tomatoes ? and 
how’s fricassees ? ” he chuckled, as he undid a package. 
“Friend of mine’s got some jewelry he wants to raise 


Mr, Smithes Friend's jewels. 67 


money on, and he sent some of it to me. You know 
what jewelry is; so, just for curiosity, thought I’d bring 
it over.” 

“Oh-oh-h — splendid!” cries the enraptured Faus- 
tina. “That’s the most magnificent bracelet I ever 
saw. O Tasso I you must give me that bracelet I ” 

“ Most happy, if ’twas only mine,” smiles the sweet 
young man. “ Just the thing for you, Faustiny I ” He 
clasped it on her too willing arm. “ By George I ain’t 
it a stunner ? Didn’t know it was so splendid, by 
George 1 Takes a beautiful arm to show off a fine 
bracelet like that.” 

Faustina’s cheeks were kindling, and her eyes began 
to burn. Jewelry was an intoxication to the poor 
child. She passed before the glass with her jewelled 
arm gracefully folded beneath her breast. “ O Tasso I 
I must have this bracelet, some way I Come, you never 
gave me anything in your life. All my friends make me 
presents but you,” poutingly. 

“I’d give ye the set that goes with it, if I could. 
By George I if you was my wife, Faustiny, — ’xcuse me 
for saying it, — I’d make ye sparkle till men’s eyes 
watered I If Abel was only a man of taste I ” 

“ Don’t talk of Abel. Taste ! ” said Faustina, scorn- 
fully; and she sighed and caressed the bracelet. 

“What did a plodding fellow like him ever marry 
such a lady as you are for ? ” said the insinuating Tasso. 
“ He, don’t want a brilliant wife, no more’n a toad wants 
a ?iae-pocket. You ought to be the lady of some man 


58 


Neighbors' Wives, 


■ t taste and enterprise, — see the world, and not live 
ooped up here.” 

“ Hold your tongue, Tasso Smith 1 ” cried she, with 
hashing eyes. “You make me wild. Do you think I 
uon’t know what I might have been, and that I like 
tc be reminded of it ? ” Yet it was evident that she was 
not dicpleased; and Tasso knew that his flatteries were 
wine to her ambitious heart. 

“ H^re, put ’em all on,” said he. “ That’s a love of a 
pin 1 ” 

“ Oh, it is I And those ear-rings, — what beauties I 
Tasso, you make me crazy showing me these things. 
Oh, if I had some money I ” 

“ They can be had dog-cheap,” Mr. Smith observed. 
“ It’s a rare chance for anybody that wants such a set of 
jewels. They won’t become everybody, you know. 
Takes a woman of style to wear such things. It’s noth- 
ing to me, — I’ve nothing to gain by it, — but I should 
like to see you in them sparkling gems. I tell ye, that 
bracelet is a screamer ! Why don’t ye buy ’em V ” 

“ Buy them ? ” repeated Faustina, tremblingly. “ I 
wish I could I What do they cost ? ” 

“ That bracelet and the set together retails for a hun- 
derd dollars in Boston. The lowest wholesale price is 
sixty, and they cost my friend about that. He wants 
me to get sixty for ’em if I can; but, if you like. I’ll 
take the responsibility and let you have ’em for fifty. 
If he ain’t satisfied, why, ’twon’t be but a few dollars dif- 
fei ence, and I’ll make it up to him.” 


Mr, Smithes Friend^ s Jewels, 69 


‘‘ Fifty dollars I ” sighed Faustina. “ Oh, I can’t buy 
’em, Tasso.” 

“ Sorry,” said Tasso. “ You never’ll have another 
such a chance. You might go all over Boston, and you 
couldn’t find another such set as that for less ’n ninety 
dollars, ’t the very lowest. I don’t care so much about 
’commodatin’ my friend, as I do to see you wear some- 
thin’ that becomes you.” He watched her cunningly. 
“ Well, I suppose I must be going; for I must write to 
town by the next mail, and either send back the jewels 
or the money.” 

The thought of giving up those precious ornaments 
was too much for Faustina. 

“ I’ll keep them,” said she, “ and pay you as soon as I 
can get the money of my husband.” 

“ If ’twas my afiair, I’d give ye as long a time to pay 
for ’em as you want,” replied the smooth-tongued 
Smith; “ but my friend’s only object in disposing of ’em 
for any such low price is to raise money the quickest 
possible. I don’t hai:)pen to have the funds to spare jest 
now, myself, or I’d ’commodate ye. You may never 
come acrost another such a set of gems; for there’s very 
little such gold in the market; not to speak of the stones, 
which are re’l Berzil di’muns.” 

“ What’s fifty dollars ? ” suddenly burst forth Fausti- 
na, in one of her ungovernable impulses. “I’ll take 
them, Tasso I I may as well have something now and 
then to make life pleasant, as to live in constant submis- 


70 


Neighbors^ Wives, 


sion to — I hate the grovelling necessities of life, and I 
won’t be a slave to them any longer I ” 

What she meant by these wild words, Tasso did not 
know nor care to know. His mind was fixed on the 
sale of his fictitious friend’s very fictitious gold and 
“ di’muns; ” and when he saw her sweep from the room, 
impetuously, and presently sweep back again with a 
fifty-dollar bank-note in her hand, he was content, with- 
out raising any more questions. 

“ There, my beauty I ” said he, “ though I’ve no personal 
interest in the matter, allow me to congratulate you on 
securing a bargain, which wouldn’t happen to you again 
prob’bly in a lifetime. And now, I must hurry and get 
this bill into a letter, and mail it to my friend, — enclose 
it t’ my correspondent, y’ understand; — bless me, by 
George 1 ” looking at his watch, which, by the way, did 
not go, being pinchbeck, like the rest of his jewelry, 
“ I’ve scarcely time to get around now I Good-by ! ” 

He was gone almost before she knew it. Then, look- 
ing once more at the ornaments he had left upon her 
person, remembering Abel and his payments, and realiz- 
ing fully, for the first time, what she had done, a guilty 
fear came over her, and she ran to call Tasso back. 

Too late; he was already out of sight. 


Faustina's Tangled Weh, 


71 


Till. 

FAUSTINA’S TANGLED WEB. 

“A WEIGHT like a mountain has been taken from my 
mind ! ” exclaimed Abel, coming in to dinner. “ I don’t 
see how I could raise another dollar without putting up 
my goods at auction. What I should have done but 
br the draft which came this morning, I don’t know, — 
yes I do, too ; I should have been a bankrupt for the want 
of a hundred dollars. To have been fifty dollars short 
would have been just as bad. I have seen Mr. Hodge 
to-day, and he says he must have the money without 
fail. I am to see him this evening and have a settle- 
ment. Faustina,” Abel added, with real tenderness, “ if 
you could know what an ordeal I have passed, and the 
relief it is now, to feel that I have in the drawer there the 
means to help myself out of the worst place I was ever 
in, you’d forgive me for refusing you money as harshly 
as I did, and be glad I did refuse you.” 

Faustina listened to these words with conscience-smit- 
ing fear. The jewels, which she had hastily hidden 
away at his coming, were no solace now, but only a ter- 
ror to her soul. What would he do when he found he 


72 


Neighbors^ Wives, 


had been robbed ? What would he say when he learned 
how she had squandered the missing money, and for 
what ? Could she hope to pacify him by a display of the 
baubles which had, in the hour of temptation, seemed to 
her more precious than his honor and his peace ? They 
were beginning to appear, in her own eyes, worthless as 
they were. His scorn and wrath, if he should see them, 
she could well imagine. More and more, as she looked 
forward to it, she dreaded the inevitable exposure. Abel 
perceived her flush and agitation ; but, remembering how 
sullen she had been since he refused her the money she 
required, he thought her resentment had taken some 
new form, and was not surprised at it. 

“ You don’t mean to say,” she ventured at last to sug- 
gest, “ that only just fifty dollars would make such a dif- 
ference in your affairs ? ” 

“ The difference would be,” replied Abel, “ that in 
helping myself out of the well, the chain I am to climb 
up by would lack just so much of reaching down to my 
hand. And when a man has strained every nerve to 
grasp an object, it might as well be withdrawn ten 
yards from his hand, as ten inches.” 

“ But,” faltered Faustina, “ ain’t you afraid — the 
money will be stolen ? ” 

“Not with you in the house,” replied the confiding 
Abel. “ Guard it as you would my life I I could about 
as soon face death as learn that any part of that money 
had been lost I Faustina,” he said, cheeringly, “ don’t 
look so gloomy. Better times are coming. We will live 


Faustma's Tangled Web, 


73 


more within our means, think less of the world and its 
trifles, and he much happier. It don’t require silks and 
gewgaws to make a home comfortable.” 

He folded her in his arms. He was so thankful and 
happy that he desired to bless her also with the overflow 
of his large heart. 

She suppressed her feelings as well as she could till af- 
ter he was gone. He had eaten his dinner, and departed 
full of Joy in his present good fortune and hope for the 
future. But night would soon come, and with it disclos- 
ure and disgrace. She could imagine him unsuspecting- 
ly welcoming Mr. Hodge, taking out the money to 
pay him, and starting suddenly appalled by the discov- 
ery of her theft. What should she do ? At heart a 
coward, she felt that she could never meet her husband’s 
just and terrible wrath. It was a characteristic trait of 
her selfishness, that, all this while, she thought little of 
his ruin, and of what he would suffer when the disclos- 
ure was made, but only of the shock and the shame 
that would befall herself. And now, the restraint of his 
presence removed, she gave way to wild and desperate 
resolves. Without staying to take her hair out of the 
cui 1-papers, she threw on her bonnet. 

“ Melissa,” she said, “ stop this child’s crying. I am 
going out a little while. Perhaps ” — the bitter impulse 
prompted her, and she muttered the words through her 
teeth — “ perhaps I shall never come back.” 

For she had thrust the jewels into her bag, and taken 
the bag upon her arm, with the blind, passionate feeling 
7 


74 


Neighbors^ Wives, 


that she would never return to that house and to her 
wronged husband without bringing back with her the 
money of which she had robbed him. 

In the slovenly kitchen of a slovenly house, in com- 
pany with a slovenly woman, two slovenly girls, and a 
ragged old man, the elegant Tasso Smith was at dinner, 
in his shirt-sleeves, when a quick rap came at the 
door. 

“It’s Faus tiny Dane; she wants to see you, Tasso,” 
said Miss Smith, having gone to the stoop with her friz- 
zled hair. 

Tasso turned all colors in quick succession during the 
half-minute that ensued, — either from embarrassment 
at having the beautiful Faustina find him in such a home, 
and see his uncombed, slatternly sister open the door, or 
because he supposed she had discovered the worthless 
character of the trinkets he had sold her. He wiped 
his lips hurriedly on the dirty table-cloth, put on his 
coat, and went palpitating to the door, with the most in- 
ane, simpering expression which it is possible for the 
human countenance to wear. 

“ Tasso,” said Faustina, in quick, decisive tones, “ I 
want to speak with you a minute.” 

“ W-w-will ye walk in ? ” stammered the reluctant 
Tasso, “ or sh’ll I get m’ hat ? ” 

For he knew that it was not a house fit to show her 
into. 

“ Get your hat,” said Faustina, with strange eyes and 
hectic cheeks. 


Faustina's Tangled Web, 


75 


She walked with nervous steps to and fro on the half- 
rotten plank before the door, until Tasso got his hat and 
came out. 

“Folks ain’t very well; m’ sister hain’t had time to 
change her dress to-day; I’d invite ye in, but ” — 

She interrupted the silly apology. 

“ Tasso, I can’t keep the jewels I ” 

“ Can’t ? Why not ? ” 

Mr. Smith grinned and picked his foolish teeth. 

“ I took some money my husband had got to pay off a 
note with and the interest on a mortgage; he don’t 
know it yet, but when he does, I suppose he will kill me ; 
and I must have that money, and take it back. Here 
are the jewels.” 

She pulled open her bag, and eagerly handed out the 
package, which Tasso did not touch. 

“ Don’t speak quite so loud,” he said. “ Step this 
way.” 

For the truth about that interesting young man was, 
that, when not absent in the city, he was living upon his 
thriftless relations, without making them any other 
compensation than that which his elegant manners and 
the value of his society afforded; and he was unwilling 
they should know that he had that day received a sum 
of money which would have gone far toward paying his 
summer’s board. 

“ Like to keep my business little bit private ; sisters 
’u’d think might give them some jewels, if they knew I 
had any in my possession.” 


76 


Neighbors' Wives. 


“ Take them,” said Faustina, “ and give them to any- 
body you - please. And give me back the money, at 
once ! ” 

“ Sorry to say,” replied Tasso, “ I’ve jest sent the 
money off to my friend. Why didn’t you tell me of this 
before ? It was no interest to me to sell you the jewels. 
I mailed tlie letter an hour ago,” he added, with a smile, 
on his countenance, and the money in his pocket at the 
moment. 

Faustina drew a quick breath, and cast upon him a 
stony, despairing look; the hand which held the jewels 
dropping by her side. 

“ Tasso,” she said, you have been my ruin. I can 
never go back to that house without the money. What 
shall I do?” 

Sure, I don’t know,” palavered the deceiver. “ I con- 
sider it the most unfortunate circumstance ’n th’ world, ’t 
you didn’t mention the way you was situated, ’fore I sent 
off the money. Might stop the letter now, only the mail 
has been gone as much as an hour. What will you do ? 
If I only had the money to lend you now ! Most al- 
ways have as much as that about me,” said he sympa- 
thetically, with the only fifty-dollar bank-note he had 
had in his possession for six months peeping then out 
of his waistcoat pocket. 

“ You must lend me the money I ” exclaimed Faustina. 
“ You must get it for me 1 or else ” — her heart throbbed 
up into her throat with the wildness of the thought that 
dared to enter it — “ you will never see me again, Tasso; 


Faustina' s Tangled Web. 77 

I shall go — I don’t know where; but I shan’t go back 
to his home, that is settled.” 

“ I have it I ” said Tasso. “ I know where you can 
borry the money.” 

“ Where ? for mercy’s sake ! ” 

“ Of those misers so fond of tomatoes, you know.” 

“ The Apjohns ! ” she exclaimed. “ Oh, I don’t be- 
lieve they have got so much as you tell of; and they 
wouldn’t lend it, if they have.” 

“ By George ! what I told you, now, it’s a fact, by 
George ! — hope to die if ’tain’t ! ” said Tasso. “ And 
they’ll lend, I guess,” significantly. 

“ Go and ask them I ” 

“JSTot to me, I don’t mean; they wouldn’t lend to me. 
But you jest go and mention the tomatoes, and tell the old 
woman you can’t keep the secret no longer without she 
’commodates you to a hunderd dollars, — may as well 
get a hunderd while you’re about it” (Tasso remem- 
bered he had more pinchbeck to sell), — “and she’ll 
shell out her miserly hoards, I bet ye, now I ” 

“ O Tasso, I don’t know ! But i ll try. Wait here for 
me, won’t you ? Or, no ; meet me somewhere, — where ? ” 

“ Up by the meeting-house,” suggested Tasso. 

“ Yes ! Don’t fail me, now ! for if they won’t lend me 
the money, I don’t know what I can do without you.” 

She hurried away on her exciting errand; while 
Tasso looked after her with a pale, sickly, cunning leer, 
picking his rotten teeth with one hand, and fingering 
the bank-note in his pocket with the other. 


78 


Neighbors' Wives, 


IX. 


Fi^USTINA RETURNS MRS. APJOHN’s VISIT. 

Faustina walked back toward the cooper’s house, 
with dubious and undecided steps at first, but gradually 
quickening her pace as her doubts gave place to deter- 
mination. Why had she not thought of the Apjohns 
before ? They should help her. Would they dare to 
refuse what she asked ? And could she not compel 
them, by threats, to lend her the money ? 

She reached the cooper’s house. In her impetuous 
impatience, she did not stop to knock, but would have 
entered straight, without ceremony, had not the door 
been locked. She hurried around to the kitchen door, — 
that was fastened also. A shade of disappointment 
passed over her; but it fell like the shadow of a cloud 
on a rushing stream, without checking its course. Her 
purpose could not be thwarted; though she might have 
to wait. 

Mrs. Apjohn was certainly not at home. Perhaps the 
cooper was. So much the better; for it would be easier 
to deal with him than with his wife. She hastened to 
the shop. That was likewise shut and silent. Here 
was an unforeseen difficuUy. 


Faustina Returns Mrs, Afjohns Visit, 79 

Should she go and meet Tasso, and then come hack 
after the Apjohns had returned ? Or should she go 
home and wait ? She could do nothing, think of noth- 
ing, till this exciting business was over. If she could 
only get into the house I 

Then she remembered a circumstance which she had 
several times observed, looking across from her own 
house to her neighbor’s. When Mrs. Apjohn was going 
away and leaving John in the shop, it was her custom, 
after putting on her bonnet and shawl and locking the 
back door on the outside, to carry him something, which 
Faustina conjectured was the key. But when John was 
not there, she used to stoop down and secrete the said 
something under the door-step; in order, probably, that 
he could have the means of entering the house in case 
he should come home before her. ' Faustina had also 
observed that the one who returned first, on such occa- 
sions, invariably took something from beneath the step 
before unlocking the door. 

What if the key were there now ? She was back 
again at the rear of the house in a moment. There she 
stood, just long enough to look about her. Nobody was 
in sight. No unneighborly watch-dog was there to in- 
terfere with her operations, as Turk had interfered with 
those of Mrs. Apjohn in the tomato-patch. Quickly 
she put down her hand where she had seen Prudence put 
down hers. She touched something metallic, smooth, 
and cold. It was the door-key. 

“ I’ll go in and wait anyway. There can’t be any 


8o Neighbors^ Wives. 

harm in that,” was Faustina’s excuse, as she unlocked 
the door. 

The next minute she was alone in the closed and si- 
lent house. 

She sat down and breathed. But she was too nervous^ 
to remain long seated. She got up, and walked about, 
and looked out of the windows, and peeped into the dif- 
ferent rooms. She listened to hear her neighbors com- 
ing; yet she almost dreaded to have them come, Sup- 
posing they should refuse her the money, and laugh 
at her threats ? Oh, if she was only sure they had. 
money I 

In the bedroom she saw the chest as Tasso had de- 
scribed it. She entered softly, hesitating with that su- 
perstitious feeling which often haunts the visitor in a 
still and empty house, especially if he has no rightful 
business there. Perhaps Prudence was hid behind her 
own petticoats that hung over the bed ; or what if the 
little cooper was tucked away in the corner behind the 
bureau, on the lookout for burglars ? Faustina just 
tried the lid of the chest, and, finding it fastened, walked 
back rather quickly to the kitchen, with starting and 
creeping sensations in her nerves, which were not agree- 
able. 

“ Will they never come ? ” she said to herself. “ I 
won’t wait much longer ! ” 

She looked at the clock; but she forgot to notice the 
time in the perturbation of thinking of the key which 
Tasso said was kept hidden there. Summoning a bola 


Faustina Returns Mrs, Afjohn^s Visit, 8i 


resolution, she stepped to the high mantel-piece, opened 
the clock, and found, sure enough, a key hung up within 
the case. She ran with it to the bedroom, and was 
almost frightened to find that it fitted the chest. 

Well, she might as well finish what she had begun. 
Though the Apjohns should suddenly come in and catch 
her, she could easily silence them by holding the toma- 
toes over their heads. So she turned the key, and the 
chest opened. 

But here she met with an unexpected obstacle. The 
till, in which she now firmly believed that there was 
cash, was also locked; and Mrs. Apjohn, if she was the 
prudent female we take her for, no doubt had the key 
of it in her reticule. What was to be done ? Break 
open the slender till ? That Faustina dared not do. 
Abandon the search ? That she would not. Into every 
corner of the chest she thrust her hand, and overhauled 
John Apjohn’s shirts and Mrs. Apjohn’s folded pillow- 
cases and sheets and bedspreads, in pursuit of the miss- 
ing key. She often thought she heard footsteps, and 
stopped to listen, then with trepidation renewed her 
search. 

But no key was to be found. She tried the key of 
the clock-case and the winding-up key; but neither of 
them would fit. Should she give up so ? There was a 
key in her bag ; she would try that. It was too large. 
Then she bethought her of the key to the case of jewels. 
She tried it, — it was too small. No, it would enter I 
she could turn it; and lo, the till was unlocked 1 


82 


Neighbors'^ Wives. 


Ah, well was it for Faustina, who had condemned her 
neighbor’s trespass so severely, that there was no big 
dog to pounce in upon her now, and arrest her in the 
midst of an act that looked quite as much like larceny 
as anything Prudence Apjohn ever did ! It would be 
interesting to know if she thought of the stolen tomatoes 
then, and the remarks she had made on the occasion. 
Alas for this poor human nature of ours, which prompts 
us to pass sentence to-day upon the very sins we may 
have been guilty of yesterday, or may commit to-mor- 
row I The more liable we ourselves are to yield to 
temptation, the sterner our judgment is apt to be of 
those who have fallen. Whereas the truly wise man, 
who has known by experience what temptation is, and 
has conquered it, is he of all others whose cloak of 
charity is broadest and warmest. 

Yet Faustina had never believed herself capable of 
such an act as she was now committing. She had ap- 
proached the cooper’s house full of virtuous indignation 
against robbing and pilfering, and had the speech ready 
by which she intended to humiliate the wrong-doer, and 
exact indemnity for the wrong. And here she is, self- 
abandoned to the sin which she had deemed so monstrous 
and unpardonable in another I 

For Tasso had spoken truly once. In the till there 
was a pocket-book. In the pocket-book there was a 
roll of bills. These she hastily opened, and folded up 
again as hastily. With quivering fingers she had ex- 
tracted the sum she required, — a fifty-dollar note, the 


Faustina Returns Mrs. Apjohn's Visit. 83 

eight of which had sent a thrill of terrified joy to her 
soul. This she thrusts into her bosom. The rest of the 
money she returns to the pocket-book, places the pocket- 
book in the till, and locks the till with the key of the 
jewel-case. Then, having smoothed the rumpled linen 
in the chest as well as she can, she lets down the heavy 
lid again, and locks it with the key, which she returns 
to the clock-case. 

All this has passed almost too quickly for thought. 
But now, standing in the room, lingering and listening, 
with tremors of heart, she begins to refiect, — 

“ Maybe they never’ll know who took it. I’ll threaten 
to tell about the tomatoes if they go to make a fuss.” 
But suppose she should meet them as she goes out? 
This is now her great trouble. “ Who cares ? ” she 
says to herself. “ I’ll tell them I came to borrow some 
money, and have taken it, and mean to repay it; and if 
they say a word, they shall hear of the tomatoes all 
over town. I’ve got the money and they can’t help 
themselves.” 

So saying, she flirts a curl-paper out of her hair. 
Without perceiving the insignificant loss, — for has she 
not a far more precious bit of paper in her bosom ? — 
she quits the house, locks it after her, puts the key un- 
der the door-step, and hurries home — unobserved ? 

Now, breathless, in her own room she stands; takes 
oflT her things, and arranges her hair before the glass; 
incorporates Mrs. Apjohn’s note with the sum which 
Abel had saved, inventing a score of arguments towards 


84 


Neighbors'* Wives. 


self-justification; hides away the miserable jewels; and 
then, forgetful of her engagement with Tasso, establishes 
herself at the window to watch, through the curtains, 
for Mrs. Apjohn’s return. 


Faustina^ s Suspense, 


85 


X. 

FAUSTINA’S SUSPENSE. 

It is an anxious hour to Faustina. With all her reit- 
erated assurances to herself that she has done only what 
necessity compelled her to do, and what she had a per- 
fect right to do after Mrs. Apjohn’s example, she feels a 
deep concern to know whether her visit to the house 
will be discovered, and, in that case, what will be the 
issue. For a long time she perceives no signs of life 
about the Apjohn premises. The grocer’s boy comes 
with a bundle, knocks, and, after waiting a few minutes, 
deposits it on the door-step. Then Cooper John ap- 
pears, and Faustina holds her breath. But he passes 
by, just looking at the bundle on the door-step, and en- 
ters his shop, where presently he can be heard hammer- 
ing the old tune on the hoop, — “ Cooper Dan, Cooper 
Dan, Cooper Dan, Dan, Dan 1 ” — sounds which never 
fell so heavily on Faustina’s heart before. 

But soon she has more dreadful things to contemplate. 
Prudence Apjohn has returned, with her arms full of 
packages from the store. These she lays beside the 
larger bundle which has already arrived, and inserts a 
8 


86 


Neighbors' Wives, 


hand beneath the door-step. Then she unlocks the door, 
and opens it. Then she loads up her apron with the 
packages, and enters. Then she shuts the door behind ^ 
her, and all is ominously still, and Faustina waits for 
the anticipated explosion. Prudence has had plenty of 
lime to go to the chest and discover the burglary; still 
there is no movement of alarm. But now it is coming ! 
Faustina feels her cheek blanch as the kitchen-door of 
the Apjohn cottage flies open, and the portly figure of 
Prudence appears. But apprehension is useless. No 
scream is heard; the ponderous arms are not flung up- 
ward with despair at the loss of half her treasure; 
Mrs. Apjohn has a tin teakettle in her hand, which she 
fills at the well, and goes back with it to the house 
again. 

Faustina’s fear is relieved. And now she considers 
within herself the expediency of going over and telling 
Mrs. Apjohn what she has done. But her evil genius 
whispers, “You will never be discovered; keep still !” 

Faustina kept still accordingly. She entered the 
kitchen, and finding some work to do, set herself about 
it with remarkable industry. Faustina was cheerful. 
Faustina was demure. She spoke pleasantly to Me- 
lissa, and did not scold. She actually tolerated little 
Ebby, and did not say, as usual, “Oh, go away; you 
spoil my nice collar ; take him, Melissa.” And what 
was most extraordinary, she appeared quite amiable to- 
ward the old lady. 

“ Do you feel pretty well to-day, dear mother ? ” with 
a smile of filial solicitude. 


Faustina's Suspense, 


87 


“ Oh, quite well,” smiles back the old lady, “ with the 
exception of the pain in my bootjack,” — meaning her 
rheumatic shoulder. 

Abel comes home to supper, and is, at first, pleased 
with the change in his fair young wife. The cloud has 
passed from her brow. She greets him with a serene 
aspect. But she is almost too afiectionate, too eager to 
please. He half-suspects that she means to coax money 
out of him by putting on these fascinations. There is a 
nervousness in her manner, an ill-concealed excitement 
in her looks, and often an incoherence and singular ab- 
ruptness in her words, which do not seem quite natural. 
Lively as she would fain appear, her replies are fre- 
quently mechanical and absent-minded. So that Abel 
hardly knows whether he ought to feel gratified, or 
view her behavior with suspicion. 

But she lisps no syllable of a wish for money. He 
therefbre concludes that what he said to her at noon has 
produced a salutary effect. She evidently regrets her 
late extravagance and unreasonableness; means to be a 
better wife to him than she has been ; and is now trying 
hard to appear contented with her lot. Regarding in 
this light the part she is playing, he can well forgive her 
for overdoing it. And once more he hopes — as he has 
so often vainly hoped before — that happier days are at 
hand. Alas, Abel ! 

Faustina cannot help starting and losing her color, 
when she hears any noise without. Visions of the 
affrighted cooper, of Prudence, furious at the loss of her 


88 


Neighbors* Wives. 


money, rise before her at every slight sound. Turk, 
knocking at the door with his wishfully-wagging tail, as 
he waits to be let in, makes her heart sink. And now 
footsteps actually approaching take her very breath 
away. 

It is Mr. Hodge, come to have his settlement with 
Abel. She is glad it is not somebody else. Yet his 
presence disturbs her; for now the money is to be 
counted, and change hands, and she dreads she knows 
not what. Her hand shakes so that she puts the candle 
out when she goes to snuff it. She lights it with a match, 
and then blows the candle out instead of the match, 
which burns her fingers. Fortunately, Mr. Hodge and 
Abel are talking and do not observe her. 

The settlement takes place in the sitting-room. There 
she leaves the candle with Abel and the visitor, and pre- 
tends to return to the kitchen, but finds some excuse to 
linger at the door and listen. 

“Well,” exclaimed Abel, looking over his money, “ I 
didn’t know I had a bill on the Manville Bank I I had a 
fifty-dollar bill — but — it’s curious 1 I should think I’d 
have noticed it.” 

“ One bill is as good as another, if the banks are good 
and the bills genuine,” carelessly observes the merchant. 

“Yes; but I don’t see how I could have that bill in 
my possession, and not know it,” says the puzzled Abel, 
while Faustina’s heart throbs suffocatingly. 

“ If you handled as much money as I do,” replies 
Hodge, “ you couldn’t always think of keeping the run 


Faustina's Suspense. 89 

of it.” And the conversation turns upon other matters. 
Faustina is faint. 

Hodge soon after took his departure, which now 
proved as serious a cause of disturbance to Faustina as 
his coming had been; for he carried away with him the 
irrevocable bank-note, to which his attention had been 
drawn in such a manner that he could not fail to re- 
member and trace it back to Abel, in case any trouble 
came of it in future. She had fondly imagined that, as 
soon as the money was out of her husband’s hands, her 
mind would be at rest. But there is no rest for the 
guilty conscience. Half the night she lay tormenting 
herself with fears of detection ; while Abel, for the first 
time in weeks, slept tranquilly at her side. Then she 
also slept, and dreamed that Mrs. Apjohn’s apron was a 
huge bank-bill, and that it contained, in place of toma- 
toes, several red and bleeding hearts, one of which was 
hers and one Abel’s. She thought that she and Tasso 
were waiting for Mrs. Apjohn to fall asleep, in order 
that they might unlock the lid of the apron, and steal 
her heart out of it, which they had just succeeded in 
doing, and were running away with it, when she — 
Faustina, not Mrs. Apjohn — awoke. 

There was a loud knocking below; Abel was bestir- 
ring himself; and presently Melissa screamed at their 
chamber-door, — 

“ Mr. Dane I Mr. Dane I here’s Mr. Apjohn wants 
to see you ! ” 

“Well, well; I’m coming,” answered Abel. “What 
8 '' 


po Neighbors Wives, 

can the cooper want, making such a racket this time of 
day ? ” 

It was just daylight. Abel, half-dressed, hastened to 
the door, where the cooper met him, with a face as white 
as chalk and eyes starting from his head. 

“ Grood-morning, Mr. Apjohn,” said Abel. “ What’s 
the news this morning V ” 

“ I’m a ruined man I ” said the cooper, with grief, 
despair, and bitter reproach in his tones; “and it’?' you 
tliat has ruined me.” 


Tasso* s Revenge, 


91 


XL 

TASSO’S REVENGE, 

Whilst Abel is drawing the poor man into the house 
and getting from him his story, and whilst Faustina, 
having overheard the alarming outburst at the door, is 
quaking with consternation, and trying in vain to 
harden her heart with indifference and stubbornness, 
it is necessary to go back a few hours in our narrative, 
and relate how John Apjohn came to be knocking at 
Abel Dane’s kitchen in the gray morning. 

Prudence, on her way home from the village with her 
purchases the previous afternoon, had encountered Tas- 
so Smith, walking up and down by the meeting-house 
green. Tasso was waiting for Faustina, and impatient 
at her failure to keep the engagement. He had some 
more of his friend’s jewelry to show her, in case she had 
succeeded in borrowing more than fifty dollars of Mrs. 
Apjohn. At length he had a glimpse of a female figure 
approaching by the young elms up the street. That 
was not the direction from which he expected Faustina; 
but he concluded that she had gone around the square, 
and come that way to the rendezvous, in order to avoid 
the appearance of going directly to meet him. He 


92 


Neighbors' Wives, 


turned and walked back slowly, that she might overtake 
him; when with mutual surprise they would recognize 
each other, and walk on together. He had his face made 
up to the premeditated expression; he lifted his hand to 
his hat as the footsteps came beside him, and, turning with 
his genteelest bow and most ravishing smile, saluted — 
Mrs. Apjohn ! 

Did you ever, when a child, throw a chip at some proud 
cock of the walk, just as he was stretching up his neck 
and beginning to crow ? The jubilant, shrill-swelling 
note breaks otf in the middle, and dies in a miserable 
choking croak; the loftily curving neck and haughty 
crimson crest are suddenly abashed; down sink the flap- 
ping wings; and chanticleer, dodging the chip, hops 
from the fence to the ground, humiliated at being put thus 
to confusion in sight of the admiring pullets and envious 
young cockerels, before whom he is desirous of showing 
off. 

Such a bird was Tasso; and such a chip the look Pru- 
dence Apjohn gave him. It was too ridiculous; it was 
exasperating: instead of the anticipated smile from 
Faustina, a sarcastic sneer from that hateful woman I 
Instead of the beautiful countenance, that great, round 
russet face ! Instead of the superb form, about which 
there was such a grace and style, an immense, waddling ^ 
female shape, with adipose folds rolling over the tight- 
drawn apron-string. And he had got up all that elabo- 
rate flourish, put on his sweetest expression, and actual- 
ly touched his hat, to that disgusting creature 1 The 


Tasso's Revenge, 93 

smile petrified on his lips. His waving bow broke, 
withered, bore no fruit. 

“ ’Scuse me ! ” he muttered. “ Thought ’twas some- 
body else.” 

“No doubt you did think it was somebody else I ” 
answered Prudence. “You wouldn’t have took sech 
pains to bend your back and look sweet to me, i know ! 
You han’t liked me a bit sence that affair of changin’ 
the hunderd-dollar bill which you never had, — come, 
now, ain’t that the reason ? You used to come to my 
house, often enough, and beg a doughnut, or a piece of 
gingerbread, when you was a little boy. You remem- 
ber, don’t ye ? You used to sing them days. Don’t ye 
remember how you used to sing ? You’d come in when 
we was to supper; I can see you now in that ragged 
little roundabout you wore, all grease and dirt; hair 
wasn’t quite so slick as ’tis now, for if it see a brush or a 
comb once a month them days, ’twas a wonder; and 
you’d commence and walk round the table, and sing that 
little song of your’n, — 

‘ I wish I had somethin* to eat, 

I wish I had somethin’ to eat.’ — 

Remember it, don’t ye ? ” 

Tasso remembered it only too well ; and he could 
have throttled Mrs. Apjohn for remembering it too. 

“ Many’s the doughnut you’ve had to my house, and 
welcome,” she resumed. “ I never’d refuse even a beg* 
gar ’t I never see before, — much less a neighbor’s boy 


94 


Neighbors- Wives, 


that never seemed to have enough to eat to hum. I don’t 
say this ’cause I’ve anything laid up ag’inst ye; only to 
remind you ’t I’ve always been your friend, and never 
give you no reason, as I know on, to act so insolent 
towards me as you do lately. You think you’re a gen- 
tleman, Tasso Smith; but you ought to know that 
wearin’ Sunday-clo’es every day, and them mustawshy 
things on your upper lip, and that great, danglin’ watch- 
chain, and struttin’ up and down when you should be 
helpin’ your pa git a livin’, and sayin’ to a woman like 
me, after bowin’ to her by mistake, Oh^ you thought 
Hwas somebody else / — so insultin’ ! — this kind o’ con- 
duct don’t make a gentleman, and you ought to know 
it. If you was re’ly a gentleman now, you’d ofler to 
carry some of these bundles, seein’ you’re goin’ the 
same way I am.” 

“ Much obliged to you,” said Tasso ; “ I turn off 
here.” And he took a by-street, returning to the meet- 
ing-house, while Prudence trudged along home. 

Stung to fury, — burning for revenge, — he parted 
from her with a white smile. A generous soul would 
either have forgiven her on the spot or have answered 
her on the spot. But his was one of your grovelling and 
cowardly natures. He preferred a secret and safe re- 
venge, to an open one that might expose him to.d anger. 
Besides, he saw an advantage in postponing his resent- 
ment on this occasion. He felt that he held in his hand 
a weapon that would have annihilated the strong, plain- 
speaking woman. As David slew the Philistine with a 


Tasso^s Revenge, 


95 


pebble, so he could have brought Prudence low with a 
tomato. He longed to suggest that she was hardly a fit 
person to give lessons in good behavior, who furtively 
filled her apron in her neighbor’s garden. But that 
would take the wind out of Faustina’s sails, he refiected; 
for what would her threats of exposure avail with Pru- 
dence, if the latter knew that her fault was already 
published ? “ After Faustina has got the money, 

then I ” — and he walked back towards the church, pon- 
dering an ingenious revenge. 

Home went the unsuspecting Prudence in the mean 
time, unlocked the house, took ofi* her things, and put 
on the tea-kettle. She had cheated John and herself 
out of a dinner that day; and she was going to have 
supper early. The cooper, cold and starved as usual, 
came in just as she was blowing ashes and smoke into 
her face and eyes, trying to kindle a smouldering brand 
and save a match. 

“How, what do you want, I’d like to know?” she 
cried, naturally cross under the circumstances. “ Sup- 
per ’ll git along jest as fast without you, and a little 
faster.” (Blow, blow.) “ Musn’t bother me now.” 
(Blow, blow, blow.) “ Hateful smoke I And I’ve got 
my mouth full of ashes. I do declare I why can’t the 
pleggy thing kindle ? ” 

“ Shan’t I blow ? ” said the meek cooper. 

“ You ! ther’s no more breath in you than there is in 
my shoe I I wish you’d stay in the shop. How I do 
hate to have a man nosin’ around I ” 


96 


Neighbors^ Wives, 


To be sure ! to be sure I ” answered J ohn, more 
melancholy and submissive than ever since the affair of 
the tomatoes. “ I haven’t got a right to come into my 
own house, I suppose. But I was gitt’n’ hungry. 
Haven’t had anything but a crust to eat sence mornin’. 
But never mind.” And he turned up his eyes with a 
resigned expression. 

“ Guess you won’t starve; it’s only a quarter-past 
two.” Blow, blow, — smoke, ashes, blow. 

“ Prudy ! ” remonstrated John, in a feeble, dejected 
way, “ it was two o’clock before I come home; and that 
was an hour ago.” 

“Jest look at the clock there. If you won’t believe 
your ears, maybe you will your eyes.” 

“ To be sure, to be sure ! ” said the cooper, in mild 
astonishment. “ But, Prudy ! Prudy ! that clock has 
stopped ! ” 

True enough; when Faustina replaced the key of the 
chest, she had touched the pendulum unwittingly, and 
the pointers remained fixed at the minute when the 
larceny was consummated. 

“ Massy sakes ! so it has ! and it may have been stop- 
ped an hour, fur’s I know. You didn’t wind it up last 
night; jest like your carelessness, John Apjohn I ” 

But John demonstrated to her, by the position of the 
weights, that the clock had not run down. And h« 
seemed to consider the mysterious circumstance as the 
forerunner of some dire chance. 

“ It never done sich a thing afore, Prudy ; it never done 
sich a thing afore.” 


Tasso's Revenge, 


97 


“ Wal I ” — contemptuously — “I wouldn’t be so scart 
by a little trifle like the stoppin’ of a clock ! Here's 
the chist-key all right. And now, while I’m puttin’ 
away my things, and the flre’s kindlin’, you run ovei 
to Abel’s and see what time it is.” 

The cooper only groaned and shook his head. Hot 
even his wife’s energetic wishes could induce him to face 
one of the Dane family, after his last humiliating errand 
to their garden. 

“ Wal, now, I wouldn’t be so sheepish ! I ain’t goin 
to let that thing trouble me. I’ll hold up my head, 
while I’ve got one; and let folks put upon me, if they 
da’s’t ! I give that Tasso Smith a piece of my mind, as 
I was cornin’ home. He mustn’t think he’s goin’ to 
have over his impudence to me, and not git as good as 
he gives. I saj^ for’t, John Apjohn ! ” opening the chest, 
to lay her shawl into it, “ you shan’t come to this chist 
at all if you’ve always got to tumble it up so, — now jest 
look here I You shall keep your shirts in the ketchall, 
and never come near my things, if you can’t be a little 
more careful.” 

In vain the cooper protested that he had not opened 
the chest. Who had, if he hadn’t, she desired to know. 

“ To be sure ! ” he answered, helplessly, the evidence 
being against him. “ I must have done it in my sleep, 
though.” 

“ I say, in your sleep ! You’re never more’n half 
awake. Y ou han’t touched the money, have you ? I 
ain’t goin’ to have that touched, till we buy two more 
9 


98 


Neighbors^ Wives, 


railroad shares with it and what Mr. Parker will be pay- 
in’ us now in a few days. I run in debt for the things 
I got to-day, for fear we might fall short, and I’m very 
anxious to have the shares, and put the money out of 
our hands, and have it bringin’ in somethin’.” 

Then, having unlocked the till, to see that the pocket- 
book was there, she locked it again, and returned to the 
kitchen. The smoke had by this time got out of her 
eyes ; the tea-kettle was simmering, and her heart, too, 
began to simmer cheerfully. She told John about her 
purchases, whilst she was setting the table; the pork 
was soon fried and the potatoes warmed up; and they 
sat down to supper. They had no tomatoes that 
night. Indeed, John had lost his appetite for toma- 
toes, and Prudence herself was not very fond of them 
lately. 

The cooper felt lost without the time. He was afraid 
they might not go to bed at just eight o’clock, and seemed 
to think something dreadful would happen if they failed 
in that important particular. And then, how would 
they ever know when to get up in the morning ? These 
doubts so harassed the poor man’s mind, that he lay 
awake half of the night, and heard robbers around the 
house, and was out of bed at four o’clock, with a candle 
in his hand, looking for daylight and burglars*. 

“ I guess if there ’d been anybody around I should 
have heard ’em as soon as you would,” said Prudence. 
“ I don’t care half so much about the thieves as I do 
about the taller you’re burnin’ out with your narvous* 


Tasso's Revenge, 


99 


ness. Come, either dress ye or come back to bed agin. 
I don’t think it’s much after midnight, anyway.” 

But John is so sure of the noises he has heard during 
the night, that he cannot be easy till he has opened the 
door and looked out. It is a still, cold morning. The 
earth is hushed and dark ; the east is scarcely yet tinged 
with the dawn ; overhead the constellations glitter. 
Hesperus stands with golden candle in the dim doorway 
of the world, and looks down upon John Apjohn stand- 
ing with tallow dip in the doorway of his humble 
kitchen. In the northern sky, Cassiopeia and the Bear 
are having their eternal see-saw, balanced on the Pole. 
The cooper beholds and wonders, for the vastness and 
silence and majesty of the night have a meaning for the 
soul of this man also. 

Forgetful of the burglars, heedless of the flaring and 
dripping candle, he stands in his shirt and trousers, 
agaze at the heavens. An astounding circumstance re- 
calls him to himself. Something is dangling at the 
door. He feels to ascertain what it is, — advances the 
candle, — utters one stifled cry of dismay, and retreats 
into the house, horrified. 

“ John Apjohn I what is the matter ? ” demands Pru- 
dence, rushing to his side in her night-clothes. 

He cannot speak, but he points; he helplessly holds 
the candle, to call her attention to an object which he 
has partially dragged into the house, and let fall across 
the threshold. 

“ Sakes alive ! what is it ? Where did you find it ? 


lOO Neighbors' Wives. 

Vines I What under the sun ? Tomatuses ! ” And 
the terrible significance of the symbol burst upon her, 
too. 

Tasso was revenged. 

“ To be sure I to be sure ! to be sure I ” were the only 
words the miserable cooper could utter, as he starcjd at 
the portent. 

But Prudence, more resolute, pulled the vines from 
the outer door-handle to which they were attached, and 
finding a piece of paper pinned to them, took it off, and 
held it to the light. It bore the following inscription: 

“ For Mrs. Apjohn's apern.^^ 

She spelled it out, aloud, as she deciphered it. If 
Cooper John had any strength remaining up to this 
time, it was now taken from him, and he sat down shiv- 
ering on the cold stove. Mrs. Apjohn also succumbed 
to the chirographical thunder-bolt, and went down 
upon the wood-box, with all her burden of flesh. 
The light she placed on a chair; the trail of vegetables 
variegated the floor; in her hand she still held the mis- 
sive. And there the twain sat, in a long and very awful 
silence, — a scene for a Dutch painter. 

“ Wal I ” said Prudence, as soon as she could regain 
her powers of respiration and utterance, “ I hope that’s 
mean enough, anyway I That’s Abel Dane’s work, 
John ! ” 

Oh, no I no I Abel Dane wouldn’t do sich a thing 
as that,” moaned the cooper. 

“So much the wus, then 1 If he didn’t do it, he has 


Tasso^s Revenge, 


lOI 


told somebody; and didn’t he promise never to tell? 
And which is the wust for us, I’d like to know, — to have 
him insult us in this way, or tell all over town, and send 
somebody else to do it ? ” 

“ To be sure 1 to be sure ! ” The stricken man took 
the paper from her hand, and held it to the light to study 
it. “ A, p, e, r, n, ctpern / It is somebody that knows 
how to spell, Prudy ; it’s somebody that knows how to 
spell ! ” And he turned to his wife with the air of one 
who has made an appalling discovery. 

Like most ignorant men who have a large element of 
wonder in their nature, he stood greatly in awe of learn- 
ing; and he naturally thought that if the vicious joke had 
been perpetrated by some blockhead, whose orthographi- 
cal attainments were not equal to the spelling of apern, 
it would not be so bad. 

“ It’s Abel Dane, or he’s to the bottom on’t, take my 
word I ” said Prudence, with mingled chagrin and ex- 
asperation. “ Oh, the smooth-spoken, desaitful wretch 1 
He never’d have da’s’t to do it if I’d had a man for a 
husband I Oh, it’s too mean 1 too mean I ” and the 
worthy woman burst into tears of anger and shame. 

Suddenly the cooper started to his feet. 

“ I’ll know the truth of it, Prudy ! I’ll see Abel, and 
know the truth. If it’s all over town, we may as wcl. 
go and jump into the well fust as last; for what’ll bi 
the use of tryin’ to live where everybody’ll be piutin 
at us and hootin’ ? ” 

“ I’ll live to be even with Abel Dane 1 ” vowed Pru^ 


9 * 


102 


Neighbors^ Wives. 


dence. “I shan’t think of dyin* till I’ve come up with 
him ! Oh-h ! you’ll see ! ” (through her teeth). “ If 
he hadn’t been so ’ily-tongued and ready to promise, I 
wouldn’t mind. Goin’ right over now ? That’s right. 
Show your spunk for once, John. But put on your hat, 
— put on your hat, and your jacket, too.” 

“ To be sure, to be sure ! ” murmured J ohn, con- 
fusedly turning round and round, till at last he got hold 
of the table-cloth instead of his jacket, and was on the 
point of donning the skillet in place of his hat. 

“Don’t you know what you’re about?” said Pru- 
dence, putting her hand on her knee and helping herself 
to get upon her feet, which ponderous operation was 
performed with considerable more alacrity than usual. 
“ Here’s your hat.” She clapped it on his head. Then she 
opened his jacket for him to get into. “Here, stick out 
your arms ! ” And, having thus equipped him as if he 
were a knight of old and these coverings his armor and 
coat-of-mail, she sent him to meet the foe. “ Look out 
for that pesky dog I ” she counselled him as he sallied 
forth. 

The earth, that slept under the night’s dark blanket 
and spangled coverlet, was now throwing them off and 
putting on her glorious morning-gown. Dim in its 
socket flickered the candle of the watcher Hesperus, his 
feet on a threshold of silver. Immortal youth and 
freshness breathed in the atmosphere like a finer air. 
Music awoke with beauty, the birds twittered, and the 
cock blew his bugle in the misty tent of dawn. But 


Tasso^s Revenge, 


103 


what was the joy of sight and sound and honeyed taste 
of life to Cooper John Apjohn, rushing to his neighbor’s 
on such desperate business ? What to Faustina, peeping 
wildly from the window, were the crimson sleeves and 
refulgent, rosy scarf of mother earth at her dewy toilet V 
Alas, for mortal man I Daily the harmonious doors of 
the museum and picture-gallery of God open to invite 
us; nor is wanting the mystic key by night, which un- 
blocks them again to the wise; and there, in celestial 
livery, with star-torches, attendants wait to guide us 
among the white and awful forms of contemplation, as 
the pope’s servitors show, by the light of flambeaus, 
the statuary of the Vatican. But we are hurrying to 
market or to mill, chasing pleasure, or pursued by fear, 
absorbed in calculations of profit and loss, or preoccu- 
pied by shame and heart-ache, — the hat of vulgar habit 
slouched over the eyes, — so that glimpses of the shining 
vestibule and perfect pageant do not reach and win the 
&oul. 


Neighbors^ Wives, 


104 


XII. 

THE GUILTY CONSCIENCE. 

After the cooper entered, Faustina drew back from 
her window, and waited, scared and palpitating, for the 
expected catastrophe. It did not come. The sitting- 
room door closed upon the voices of Cooper John and 
her husband ; and now all was still. Her guilty and im- 
patient spirit tormented itself with conjectures; and she 
stood with brows knitted and lips apart, wringing her 
thoughts for some drop of certainty regarding the ob- 
ject of their neighbor’s early visit, when Melissa ran to 
the door and rapped. 

“ Mrs. Dane, you’re wanted I ” 

The summons went to the wretched woman’s heart. 
So the hour had arrived, and she was to be arraigned 
and accused. 

“ Melissa I ” she whispered, “ come in 1 — What is 
it?” 

“ That’s more’n I know, ma’am. But Mr. Apjohn ’s 
in a terrible way; and it seems it’s something you’ve 
done.” 

“ I ? What ? What have I done ? ” And poor Faus- 
tina catches hold of the girl’s arm, as if she meant to 


The Guilty Conscience* 105 

hold her till she hears the truth. “ What have I done, 
Melissa ? ” 

“ That you know best, ma’am. Mr. Dane says come 
quick. Shall I help you ? ” offering to assist in dress- 
ing her mistress. 

“ I don’t know — O Melissa I — if I dared to tell you 1 
How do they know it was me ? ” 

“You went into Mr. Apjohn’s house yesterday, when 
they wa’n’t to home, and mabby that’s it,” suggested 
Melissa, thinking to throw a little light on the subject. 

“ I did ? — How dare you say I did, you wicked girl I ” 
shaking her. 

“Why, I seen ye !” says the innocent and amazed 
Melissa. “ But I didn’t think there was any harm in 
it.” 

“ Did you tell any one ? Did anybody else see ? Tell 
me the truth, Melissa 1 ” 

“ No ! not as I know on. I h ain’t mentioned it.” 

“ Don’t you, then ! not ft)r your life. I’ll give you 
that watered silk — I’ll get Abel to raise your wages — 
you shall have those satin shoes you like so. O Me- 
lissa ! I’ll be the best friend you ever had, if you’ll- stand 
by me.” 

“Why, ma’am!” — the girl opened her honest eyes 
betwixt delight and incredulity at these extravagant 
promises, — “I’ll stand by ye, and be thankful; but 
what dreadful thing is’t you’ve been and done ? ” 

“ Melissa 1 ” said the unhappy woman, eager to gain 
the sympathy and counsel of some one, no matter if it 


io6 Neighbors Wives. 

was only her servant, “ promise me i ever to lisp the 
secret so long as you live I ” 

Melissa, who had suffered enough from the capricious 
pride and temper of her mistress, was glad of an oppor- 
tunity to establish more confidential and friendly rela- 
tions between them. To promise secrecy is easy; and 
she promised. 

“ Swear it 1 ” said Faustina, like the heroine of a mel- 
odrama. “ Put your hand on this Bible, and swear I 
Say, I swear a solemn oath ” — 

“ I swear a solemn oath I ” repeated the staring Me- 
lissa. 

“ Never to breathe to any mortal soul ” — 

“ Never to breathe to any mortal soul ” — 

“ What I am going to tell you.” 

“ What I am going to tell you.” 

“Now kiss the book.” 

Melissa smacked the leather. Then Faustina poured 
forth her story. 

“ But I didn’t steal the money; I meant it for borrow- 
ing, true as I live, Melissa. But won’t it seem like steal- 
ing ? And now they have found it out, — oh, what shall 
I do ? What would you do, Melissa? ” 

“La, ma’am I ’’said Melissa, with unaffected concern, 
“ I don’t know ! Seems to me I should go and tell ’em 
I only borrowed it, and meant to pay it back.” 

“ It’s too late ! ” Faustina shook her head and com- 
pressed her lips. “ I shouldn’t care for the Apjohns, if 
’twasn’t for my husband. What will he say ? Melissa, 


The Guilty Conscience. 


107 


I shall deny it. And you must bear me out m it. Oh, 
dear! there’s Abel calling, and I must go. Am I very 
pale ? ” And she turned to the glass, and put her 
knuckle into her fair cheek, which whitened under the 
pressure. 

“ No, you look red,” said Melissa. 

“ Do I ? I mustn’t appear agitated. I won’t I There ! ” 
with sudden resolution, putting on a haughty and brazen 
air, “ I am not going to be afraid. — Kemember, Melissa, 
— the watered silk and the shoes I ” 

Little Ebby had been crying unheeded for the last five 
minutes. Melissa remained to take care of him, while 
Faustina, trembling and faint-hearted in spite of her ef- 
fort to seem unconcerned, went to the dreaded interview. 

The cooper was sitting with his feet upon the chair- 
round, brooding dejectedly over his knees; and Abel 
was endeavoring to soothe and reassure him, when she 
entered. 

“ Here she is,” said Abel. J ohn lifted his colorless and 
woe-begone countenance. “ Faustina, neighbor Apjohn 
brings a serious charge against us; and I want you to 
clear yourself from it, if you are innocent.” 

He spoke earnestly. He was convinced of her guilt, 
she thought. She did not answer, but looked down as 
coldly as she could at the cooper, who looked up ag- 
grieved and disconsolate at her. 

“ I wouldn’t have supposed,” said John, with an affect- 
ing quaver in his voice, “ that a lady like you could do 
sich a thing. Have I ever done you any harm ? ” 


io8 Neighbors' Wives, 

“]Sro, Mr. Aj^john,” replied Faustina. “Who said 
you had ? And what have I done to you ? ” 

“ Done I What have you done ! To be sure ! to be 
sure I O Mrs. Dane, I hope you may never sutler 
as you have made me. To be robbed of the hard earn- 
ings of years, — that would be nothing, but ” — 

“ Bobbed ! ” interrupted Faustina, feigning surprise, 
“ who has robbed you, Mr. Apjohn ? ” 

“ Who has, if you have not ? And sich a robbery ! 
Not gold or silver ! ” sobbed the poor man, thinking of 
his good name gone forever. 

“ Gold ? silver ? ” cried Faustina. “ I haven’t touched 
your gold and silver. Not a dollar of it. Who says I 
have ? ” 

“ It isn’t gold or silver I’ve lost,” said John, moan- 
ing, as he brooded over his knees. “ Gold and silver, — 
no ! no ! ” And he shook his sorrowful head. 

“ I haven’t touched your paper-money, either ! ” cried 
Faustina, assuming an indignant air. “ How should I 
know you had any ? You might keep thousands of dol- 
lars in your house, and I never should know it; and I 
never should care. But you mustn’t come here accusing 
me of breaking into your house, and stealing the money 
you have been hoarding' up, while you have passed for 
poor people with your neighbors. No, John Apjohn I 
And I shouldn’t think it was for you to charge others 
with stealing, any way. If you live in glass houses, 
you mustn’t throw stones. I warn you, Mr. Apjohn I ” 
This vehement speech produced a strange effect upon 


The Guilty Conscience. 


109 

her audience. The cooper raised himself gradually upon 
his elbows, then sat bolt upright in his chair, regarding 
her with vague and helpless wonder. Abel fixed upon 
her an expression of severe disapprobation, believing that 
this vociferous denial of an offence with which she had 
not been charged, was only a feint to parry the real 
point at issue. 

“ These are useless words, Faustina,” he said. “ What 
do they mean ? ” 

“ Useless words ! ” she echoed; “ what do they mean ! ” 
Flushed with passion, and chafing violently, she turned 
upon him. “You, Abel Dane I my husband 1 you! 
would have me stand here and listen tamely to an insult 
from this man I I, guilty of purloining money from his 
till ! And you credit it I Oh, it is too much ! ” And 
she swept across the room, flirting out her folded hand- 
kerchief, and stanching with it imaginary tears. 

“ Faustina I ” cried Abel, amazed, and utterly at a loss 
to comprehend her conduct, “ hear me a moment. I said 
they were useless words, because you have misunder- 
stood the poor man.” 

“ To be sure 1 to be sure I ” broke in the cooper, sym- 
pathizing with her passion and distress, “ I never thought 
of laying such a thing to you, Mrs. Dane.” 

“ Oh, didn’t you ? ” she retorted, with bitter scorn. 
“ 1 wonder what you call it then. You ’d better take it 
back! If you’ve been robbed, I’m sorry for it. You 
shouldn’t keep so much money locked up in your chest, 
if you don’t want to invite burglars. They broke in last 
10 


no 


Neighbors^ Wives. 


night, I suppose. You must have slept soundly ! I’m 
sorry for you,” she went on, so rajudly that neither Abel 
nor the bewildered cooper could jnit in a word; “but 
yoii must take care how you accuse innocent people. 
When you talk of robbing neighbors, look at home. 
What if I should accuse ? What if I should tell about 
the tomatoes ? Take care, then 1 ” 

“Now you touch upon the subject,” said Abel. 
“ Haven’t you already told about that unfortunate 
affair ? ” 

“ I ? No I ” replied Faustina, surprised. 

“ Y ou have not mentioned or hinted it to any one ? ” 

“No I truly!” A positive denial; though she had 
not quite forgotten her confidences with Tasso. But 
this was only a white lie, she thought, and necessary to 
cover the black one. For, in order to hold the Apjohns 
in awe of her power, they must believe that she had not 
yet made the exposure which, of course, she would 
make, if the charge of robbing them was persisted in. 

“ There, Mr. AiDjohn,” said Abel, “ I told you she 
would clear herself. We have not betrayed you. And 
you may be assured that neither of us would stoop to 
the pitiful device of insulting you in the way you com- 
plain of.” 

The cooper only groaned, and got down over his knees 
again, in an attitude of the deepest despondency. 

“So much the wus, then ! as Prudy said. Our dis- 
grace is known; but to who ? and how many ? That’s 
the misery on’t ! ” And he buried his face. 


The Guilty Conscience. 


Ill 


Faustina, sobered by surprise, and unable to compre- 
hend the cooper’s mysterious trouble, asked an explana- 
tion. 

“ Why,” said Abel, “ some wretched scamp went last 
night, — in the night, wasn’t it?” he asked, to divert 
John Apjohn from his gloom. 

“ Yes; I heerd ’em around the house,” said the cooper, 
to the relief of Faustina, who was afraid he would say, 
“ No, it was in the afternoon, when we were gone from 
home.” 

“Went and hung some tomato vines on his outside- 
door, labelled, ‘For Mrs. Apjolin's apern.'’ And he 
thought I had done it,” continued Abel. “And when 
I assured him I had not only not done it, but had not 
told anybody but you of the little mistake his wife made 
in getting the wrong side of the fence, the good man 
thought you must have told somebody else, or have 
gone yourself and left the tomato vines.” 

“ I ? I never dreamed of such a thing ! But is that 
— is that — all ? ” Faustina eagerly asked. 

“ All ? Ain t it enough ? ” said the cooper, between 
his knees. 

“ Why, I thought — dear me ! — indeed I ” Faustina 
fluttered, and grew wonderfully smiling and affable — 
“ you haven’t been robbed, then ? ” I’m so glad of that ! 
How could I have misunderstood ? ” Her smiles be- 
came sickbed o’er with the pale cast of thought. W hat 
folly had she given utterance to, betraying her guilt, 
perhaps, in her very eagerness to deny it ! Still she 


II2 


Neighbors^ Wives, 


smiled. “ I’m sure, Mr. Apjohn, you don’t think I woidd 
go and hang tomatoes on your doors, do you ? ” 

“ No ! no ! no ! — to be sure I to be sure I to be sure I 
— well ! well ! well ! ” He rose to go, looking about 
him like one whose wits are slightly damaged. Did I 
have a hat ? I think I had a hat I Thank ye, Abel. A 
fine morning, a very fine morning, Mrs. Dane,” he said, 
in accents which foreboded that there were no more fine 
mornings for him in all this weary world. 

He bowed with feeble politeness, and, after trying to 
get into the closet, found his way, with Abel’s assistance, 
to the outer door. Faustina followed, with the same 
forced smiles, and strangely shining eyes. 

“ Good morning,” she said lightly. “ A pleasant day 
to you, Mr. Apjohn.” 

“ You’ll excuse me for troubling you,” said the cooper, 
from out the dust of his humiliation. “I — I wish you 
well. You’re both young. There’s happiness for you ; 
but none for me ! none for me ! ” and he pulled his rue- 
ful hat over his eyes. 

“Come, come, man!” cried Abel, encouragingly; 
“ don’t take it too much to heart. Cheer up, cheer up 
If the matter has got out, never mind ; it will soon 
be forgotten; you’ll live it down, honest man as you 
are. I wouldn’t mind the mean insult of a spy and 
coward, who plays his tricks in the dark, and dares not 
show his face by daylight.” 

“ Ah, yes ! you’re right, Abel, you’re right, and very 
kind. To be sure, to be sure. I hope the old lady is 


The Guilty Conscience, 113 

well this morning ! I hope she is very comfortable. I 
hope — yes, sincerely — I ” — 

He faltered, like one who forgets what he is saying, 
stood aimlessly pondering a moment, then, suddenly 
catching his breath, as it were with a stitch in the side 
of his memory, he blindly waved his hand, and, without 
looking up, jogged heavily homewards. 

10 * 


Neighbors' Wives, 


1 14 


XIII. 

THE SAD CASE OF THE COOPER. 

Prudence had all this while been waiting anxiously 
for her good-man’s return ; wishing a hundred times, 
in her impatience, that she had gone herself and settled 
the affair with Abel. The hour of John’s absence was 
perhaps the longest in that worthy woman’s life. The 
morning twilight was never so provokingly cool and 
slow. The mists were in no hurry to lift from the hills ; 
the sun took his time to rise, just as if nothing had 
happened. “ I shall fly ! ” she repeatedly informed the 
deliberate universe, as she looked over towards her 
neighbor’s, and the sluggish wheel of time brought no 
sign of the cooper’s coming. 

The wings were not yet grown, however, with which 
that massy female was to perform the threatened aerial 
excursion. She was by no means a volatile animal. The 
consequence was, that when at last John’s doleful phys- 
iognomy appeared coming through the gate (the very 
posts of which looked solemn, in sympathy with him, 
and seemed to squint pathetically at each other, from 
under their wooden caps, as he passed), the solid house- 
wife still gravitated as near the planet as any unfledged 
biped on its surface. 


The Sad Case of the Cooler, 115 

“ O John Apjohn I ” said she, reproachfully, “ I’ve 
wanted to git hold of you I What was you gone so long 
for ? ” 

“ To be sure, to be sure I ” said meek John, “ I might as 
well have not gone at all. Ko use, no use, Prudy.” And 
he sat down as if he didn’t expect ever to get up again. 

“ O you dish-rag ! ” ejaculated Mrs. Apjohn. “ There’s 
no more sperit or stiffenin’ in you than there is in my 
apron-string I ” 

“ Don’t speak of aprons I don’t speak of aprons ! ” im- 
plored the cooper; the subject being so painfully asso- 
ciated with that of tomatoes, that he did not think he 
could ever see an apron again without qualms. 

“ Well 1 ” — sharply — “ what did you find out ? You 
let Abel soft-soap you to death, I know by your looks I ” 

“Prudy,” answered the cooper, lifting his earnest, 
melancholy eyes, “ Abel Dane’s an innocent man. So is 
his wife. ’T wasn’t neither of them that hung them 
things on our door, and they haven’t told nobody. I’ve 
their word for ’t.” 

“ That for their word ! ” Prudence snapped her fin- 
gers scornfully. “ Don’t tell me 1 don’t tell me, John 
Apjohn ! They may make you believe that absurd 
story, but J know better. Jest look here ! ” 

She displayed before his eyes an old letter-envelope 
which had been rolled up, pipe-stem fashion, and which, 
when unrolled, showed an obstinate tendency to fly to- 
gether again, — very much after the manner of one of 
Faustina’s curl-papers. 


ii6 Neighbor's Wives, 

“ What is it ? where did you get it ? ” John asked, with 
feeble interest. 

“ Don’t you see what it is ? It’s one of the kivers, — • 
what ye call ’ems, — of Abel Dane’s letters. Here’s his 
name on’t, — don’t ye see ? And where do you s’pose I 
got it ? On this very floor, — see ! ” exclaimed Prudence, 
“ when I went to sweep up after them nasty tomatuses.” 

“ Abel Dane I ” pronounced the cooper, with difficulty 
holding the scroll open with his unsteady fingers, whilst 
he spelled out the name. “To be sure, Prudy; to be 
sure ! On the floor ? How come it on the floor ? I 
don’t understand. I don’t understand.” 

“ Ho, you never understand ! ” said bitter Prudence. 
“You can’t see througfi a grin’stun without somebody 
stands by and shows you the hole. It’s jest as plain as 
day to me now that Abel Dane come here last night and 
stuck them tomatuses on our door, — jest as plain as if 
I’d seen him do it. He had his label ready to put on to 
’em, but in takin’ it out of his pocket, he dropped this. 
Then when you dragged the vines into the house, you 
swep’ it along in with ’em. Who else should have one 
of his letters ? Answer me that, John Apjohn I ” 

“ Wal, wal ! ” said the cooper, convinced by this over- 
whelming circumstantial evidence, “ it must be as you 
say, Prudy. But I wouldn’t have thought he’d have 
done it; I wouldn’t have thought he’d have done it ! ” 

’“ I swep’ the house only ye's’d’y mornin’, and there’s 
been nobody in’t sence but us two, has there ? Tell me 
that I ” 


The Sad Case of the Cooler, 


117 


“ No, not as I know on,” said John. 

“ There 1 ” she exclaimed, arrogantly, as if he had been 
opposing her theory. “ How, then, I’d like to know, did 
this paper come here V If you know any better’ll I do, 
why don’t you say ? If you can explain it, why don’t 
you ? Come, you know so much I ” 

“ I don’t pretend, I don’t pretend,” murmured John. 

“ Wal I ” — triumphantly — “I guess you’ll give it up, 
then, that I’m right for once. Takes me, after all; as 
you’ll learn after I’m dead and gone, if you don’t before, 
and I never expect you will ; but you’ll think of me, and 
miss my advice and judgment in matters when I’m laid 
in my grave; and I guess you’ll wish then you’d heerd 
to me more, and thought more of my opinions; but I 
hope your conscience won’t trouble you on that account. 
Mister Apjohn ! ” 

“ Don’t, don’t, Prudy ! ” entreated the cooper, holding 
his leg on his knee, and bending over it, and rocking it 
plaintively. “ I can’t bear it ! ” 

Por the- frail mortal saw nothing absurd in the hy- 
pothesis of surviving his robust spouse; and he didn’t 
know but he might feel remorse for his supposed cruel 
treatment of her. 

“ I shan’t be always spared to you. Mister Apjohn ! ” 
— The Mister was peculiarly cutting. — “I hope you 
don’t wish me out of the way before my time comes; 
though I sometimes half think you do,” she continued, 
giving vent to her feelings in a strain to which she com- 
monly had recourse, when very much in fault, or very 


ii8 Neighbors' Wives, 

much perplexed and depressed. “ It’s nat’ral, I know; 
and I don’t say I blame you. A woman can’t expect to 
git credit for her vartews now-days; but if she happens 
for once to be a little unfort’nate in her ca’c’lations, oh, 
■it’s a dreadful thing ! and it’s laid up ag’inst her as long 
as she lives.” Prudence sighed and snuffed. 

“ Prudy,” said John, “ I hain’t laid up nothing agin 
ye; nor I don’t blame ye for nothin’, nuther;” which 
powerful array of negatives, seconded by a strong sym- 
pathetic snuffing on the part of the cooper, afforded her 
the solace she sought for her wounded self-respect. 

“ Wal ! ” she exclaimed, wiping her eyes with the cor- 
ner of her apron, “ as I said afore, I ain’t a goin’ to die 
till I’m even with Abel Dane, if I have to live to be as 
old as Methusalem. Come, don’t set mopin’ there over 
your knees ! I’m a goin’ to have breakfast; and I shan’t 
let this thing spile my appetite, nuther ! ” 

Prudence was herself again. But John could not so 
3asily extricate himself from the slough of despond; and 
she felt that she ought to do something to encourage him. 

“ Come, John,” said she, at table, “ drink your tea, and 
eat your flapjacks, and be a man ! Don’t let it worry you 
a mite. We’ve got our house and home left, and a lit- 
tle property to make us comf’table and respected in our 
old age, and about money enough a’ready to buy two 
more shares; and I’ll tell ye what, John Apjohn, — don’t 
le’s lot on doin’ much work to-day. We’re git tin’ fore- 
handed, so’s’t we can begin to think of a holiday once in 
a while. And I’ve an idee of what we’ll do. Soon’s I 


The Sad Case of the Cooler. 


119 

git the dishes cleared away, we’ll count over the money 
and see jest how much there is, though I s’pose I know 
perty near ; then we’ll go and see about gittin’ that 
money of Mr. Parker, and buyin’ two more shares. 
And jest think, John ! that will give us sixteen dollars 
more dividends every year, which’ll be a comfort to think 
of dull days, now, won’t it I ” 

John failed to be much enlivened by his wife’s 
schemes. He had not the heart to show himself to the 
eyes of the world that day; and, sorrowfully shaking 
his head, he answered, as she urged the subject of going 
out, — 

“ No, Prudy, no; you may go and enjoy yourself, but 
I shall stay to hum.” 

Accordingly Prudence, craving some stimulus to her 
dashed spirits, set out, about an hour afterwards, unac- 
companied, to see Mr. Parker about the money, — her 
proposal to compute, in the mean time, the contents of 
the till, not having been carried into eifect, in conse- 
quence of John’s dismal lack of interest. 

“ What’s money now ? ” said the poor man to him- 
self, sighing as he saw her depart, and wondering how 
she could care for such things any more. “ O Prudy, 
Prudy ! I’d give all we’ve got in this world if we could 
hold up our heads as respectable as we did a week ago ! 
But now ! ” — 

He was going mechanically to feed the pigs; but at 
the door his eye fell upon a coil of green vines in a bas- 
ket, where Prudence had thrown them, and some red 


120 


Neighbors' Wives* 


tomatoes floating on the swill; and he was so overcome 
by the sight, that the swine were left to squeal in vain 
for their breakfast the rest of the morning. 

Back into the kitchen crept the cooper, and shut him- 
self up. There was no one to observe him now; and he 
gave vent to his woe, uttering a groan at every breath, 
tearing out imaginary handfuls of hair, and scouring 
with imaginary ashes that smooth, naked scalp of his, 
until it shone. Then for a long time all was still in 
that doleful kitchen; and he might have been seen sit- 
ting, in a reversed position, astride, upon one of the 
splint-bottomed chairs, his arms folded upon the back of 
it, and his head bolstered upon his arms, — a little 
doubled-up human flgure, motionless as an eflSgy. 

John was having a vision, — not of the heavenly kind. 
He saw innumerable doors festooned with tomato-vines. 
He saw his neighbors, with sarcastic polite faces, nod 
coldly at him as he passed on the street, and wink sig- 
nificantly at each other behind his back. He saw the 
children rush out of the school-house to jeer and hoot, 
whenever he and his wife appeared. He saw the sus- 
picious clerks keep an unusually sharp watch over the 
goods on the counters, when they entered a store. He 
observed the sly glances, and the unnatural hush, — in- 
dicative of a sensation, — when they walked down the 
church-aisle on a Sunday morning. He beheld troops 
of roguish boys flocking to his house by night to fasten 
the badge of disgrace to his latch; and he heard the 
scornful laughter. This part of his vision was so vivid. 


The Sad Case of the Cooper. 121 

that he, for a moment, actually believed that there were 
impish, leering faces at the windows, looking in upon 
him, and insulting hands holding up red tomatoes to 
taunt him. He started to kis feet. The vision vanished ; 
but the intolerable burden of his shame and distress was 
with him still. 

“ Oh, I can’t live I I can’t live ! ” he burst forth. “ I 
never can show myself where I’m known again; and 
what’s the use ? ” 

He thought of the well. He went and looked into it. 
It was thirty feet deep , — cold, dark, and uninviting. If 
Prudy had been there, to fortify his resolution by her 
sympathy and example, he might have jumped in. But, 
alone, he had not the heart. He concluded that his ra- 
zor would open the most expeditious and least disagree- 
able door of exit from this dreary world, and went back 
into the house. He examined the tonsorial implement, 
and honed it. But at every stroke his dread of wounds 
and his horror of blood increased. He would not like to 
present a ghastly, mangled appearance afterwards^ and 
aggravate Prudy’s feelings by staining her clean floor. 
He cast his eyes upwards. There were hooks in the ceil- 
ing, supporting a kitchen pole, — one of those old-fash- 
ioned domestic institutions devoted to towels, dishcloths, 
coils of pumpkins, sliced in rings, drying for winter use, 
and on the ends of which farmers’ hats are hung. 

John thought of ropes and straps, clothes-line and 
bed-cord, — none of which promised to be very comfort- 
able to the neck, — and concluded that his red-silk hand* 
11 


122 


Neighbors' Wives, 


kerchief would best answer his purpose. The red silk 
was brought out of the bedroom, folded to the requisite 
shape, and a solemnly suggestive noose tied in it. This 
he slipped over his neck, and drew reasonably close, to 
see how it would seem. Then he ascended a chair, and 
passed the loose end of the handkerchief over the middle 
of the pole, and fastened it, — only to see how* it would 
seem, you know; for it was his intention to write Prudy 
an affectionate letter of farewell before committing him- 
self to the fatal leap. 

Or it may be he had as yet formed no inflexible deter- 
mination to destroy himself, — wiser men than he having 
been known to divert their melancholy by playing at 
suicide. Perhaps, in a little while, he would have de- 
scended from the improvised scaflbld, removed the halter, 
wiped his eyes with it, and felt better. Let us hope so. 
Unfortunately, however, at a critical juncture, a noise, 
real or imaginary, startled him. What if his neigh- 
bors were coming once more to insult him ? He turned 
to look ; then turned again hastily to disengage his neck, 
and get down. It was an old splint-bottomed chair he 
was using, and to avoid injuring the half-worn seat, he 
stood on the edges of it. In his agitation, he made a 
terrible misstep; the chair was overturned, ~ it flew 
from beneath his feet, — and he was launched. 


More and more Enta7igled, 


123 


XIY. 

MORE AND MORE ENTANGLED. 

Well might Faustina’s heart, meanwhile, be filled 
with stinging regrets and fears, — a restless swarm, — 
although she knew not yet half the mischief she had 
done. She wished she had never seen Tasso Smith; 
she bitterly repented confiding her secret to Melissa. 
Of her blind and foolish haste to deny her real guilt, 
when only a minor fault was charged against her, she 
could not think without anger at her own stupidity and 
dread for the result. And the jewels, — she loathed 
them. And the purloined money, — the remorse and 
terror it gave her grew momently. She was in such a 
state of suspense and alarm that, when she saw Mrs. 
Apjohn going to the village that morning, a wild fancy 
seized her that the robbery was discovered, that Pru- 
dence was in pursuit of a magistrate, and that the safest 
course now would be to overtake her, confess the bor- 
rowing, and offer the jewels as a pawn for the repay- 
ment of the money. 

Accordingly, this creature of impulse once more 
threw on her bonnet, thrust the jewels into her bag, and 
hurried forth. Not often had she ventured to show 


124 


Neighbors' Wives. 


herself in the street in a calico morning-dress; but this 
time apprehension conquered pride. Her step was 
swift, and she came in sight of Prudence as she was 
passing the meeting-house green. Then well would it 
have been for all, had Faustina promptly carried out 
her original intention ! But, at the critical moment, her 
courage failed. She shrank from the humiliation of 
placing herself, by a confession of her trespass, on a level 
with her neighbor. And the secret hope revived that 
her fears were after all groundless, and that her guilt 
might never be known. So she resolved to delay a 
little, and watch Mrs. Apjohn’s movements. 

Prudence passed down the main street of the village, 
and appeared to enter a shoe -store, — Faustina following, 
vigilant and anxious, at a safe distance. Waiting for 
her to transact her business and come out, the young 
wife proceeded more leisurely, and began to think of 
her unpresentable attire, and to hope that she might not 
see anybody that she cared for. Vain wish ! A young 
gentleman was sunning himself on the sidewalk. He 
had a self-satisfied smirk, a complacent, airy strut, a 
little moustache, and a little rattan. He bowed rather 
formally to Faustina, and was passing on. 

“O Tasso,” she cried, stopping him, “you’re doing 
everything you can to destroy my peace ! ” 

“Be I ? Wasn’t aware.” And Tasso, who not only 
resented her failure to keep her engagement with him 
the day before, but also foreboded importunities anent 
the jewels, treated her with provoking coolness. 


More and more Entangled. 125 

“ Didn’t you promise me you never would tell about 
Mrs. Apjohn ? But I was a fool,” said Faustina, “ to 
expect you to keep a secret I couldn’t keep myself! 
Though I did rely on your promise, Tasso, and never 
suspected you of betraying confidence ! ” 

“ Who said I had betrayed confidence ? I haven’t 
betrayed no confidence, madam ! ” said Tasso, still' and 
distant. I said 1 wouldn’t tell, and no more I hain’t.” 

“ Then it was you that hung the tomatoes on her door 
last night I ” 

“ Have I promised not to hang tomatoes on anybody’s 
door ? ” retorted Tasso, with an inward chuckle. “ And 
what if 1 did, — though I don’t say I did, mind, — what’s 
the harm to you ? ” 

“■ Oh, you don’t know, Tasso ! ” And Faustina did 
not dare to inform him, though she longed to. 

“I sh’d think you had time enough to borrow the 
money, by the way you kept me walking up and down 
yesterday, waiting for you, by George I ” And Smith 
tapped his patent leather with the aforesaid rattan. “ I 
walked in sight of the church there fourteen hours 
or more. Never was so disappointed in my life, by 
George ! ” — Switch. — “I keep my engagements.” 

“Forgive me, Tasso. You know what a trouble I 
was in. I couldn’t come.” 

“ Well, never mind,” said Tasso, Softening. “ Good 
joke, though, about the tomatoes ! Hung on Apjohn’s 
door ? Hi I hi 1 hi I How’d you learn V ” 

“ Oh, there’s been such a time about it I Mr. Apjohn 
11 * 


1 26 Neighbors' Wives, 

was at our house before daylight to know’ if we had done 
it.” 

“ Hi I hi ! ” tittered Mr. Smith. “ Capital joke, by 
George ! Wish I’d seen him 1 I’m waiting now to meet 
the old woman, when she comes out of the lawyer’s 
office; see how she looks; see if she’ll be so deuced inde- 
pendent with me to-day. Look here; I’ve got something 
to please her I ” Tasso unfolded his handkerchief, and 
displayed a tomato. 

Taustina scarcely heeded the malicious insinuation, a 
word he had previously dropped distracting her thoughts. 

“ What lawyer’s office ? ” she asked, excitedly gazing. 
“ She went into the shoe-shop, — if you mean Mrs. A p- 
john.” 

“ Ko, she didn’t; though ’t might have looked so to you. 
She’s in Lawyer Parker’s office now; over the shoe-shop; 
entrance next door.” 

Taking legal counsel I Then all was lost; and all 
might have been well, Faustina thought, had she but 
made haste and carried out her first intention, instead of 
delaying to reconsider and observe. And yet, perhaps, 
the faint hope kindled within her, it was not too late to 
retrieve her error. Why not go straight to the lawyer’s 
room, call out Mrs. Apjohn, and stop legal proceedings ? 

“What’s the matter?” said Tasso. “You look 
scared ! Going ? What’s your hurry ? Didn’t you git 
the money of her yist’day ? ” 

“Yes — no — I must see her now. Wait till I come 
back, Tasso ! ” 


More and 7 nore Entangled, 127 

And she hurried away from him; while he, crossing 
the street with the smiling air of a gentleman of elegant 
leisure and happy adventures, ensconced himself in an 
alley where the warm sunshine fell, and where, screened 
from general observation, he could mellow his tomato 
and watch the course of events. 

UX) the lawyer’s stairs rushed Faustina; and her hand 
was on the latch before she had taken an instant to re- 
flect upon what she was doing. There she paused to 
regain her breath, still her rapid heart-beats, and think 
over a speech to Prudence. But already the wind of 
impulse began to fail her, the sails of her spirit to col- 
lapse and shake, and the fogs of doubt to loom before 
her. And such were this woman’s feebleness of con- 
science and fickleness of heart, that she might have 
changed her purpose once more, and stolen away with- 
out lifting the latch, had not the lawyer, hearing a move- 
ment, opened the door, and found her standing there 
confused and irresolute, and invited her in. 

“You — are occupied ? ” she faltered. 

“I shall soon be at leisure,” said the cordial old man; 
“ won’t you sit down and wait ? ” 

His broad and genial manners restored Faustina’s 
confidence. He would not be so civil, she was sure, if 
he had undertaken a case against her. The proposal to sit 
down and wait seemed to her almost providential ; for, so 
deep is the natural instinct of faith, that even the wrong- 
doer will often flatter himself that his course is shaped 
by some divinity. An opportunity to compose herself, 


128 


Neighbors' Wives, 


/ 


frame excuses, look about her, and then proceed warily, 
was what she most desired. And she went in. 

Near the desk sat a farmer. He had the appearance 
of doing business with Mr. Parker, who went back to 
him, after placing a seat for Faustina. In a retired cor- 
ner was a third visitor, — a female, russet-faced and 
portly, with stoutest arms, and a form whose adipose 
folds quite buried her close-drawn apron-strings, as she 
sat compressed into one of the office-chairs. 

We recognize our friend, Mrs. Apjohn. She has the 
look of a client, awaiting her turn. A most fortunate 
circumstance for young Mrs. Dane, you think; for of 
course she will take advantage of it, to do her difficult er- 
rand, won’t she V Not at all. She nods a good-morning, 
takes her position as far from Prudence as possible, and 
pretends to read a newspaper which she picks up; 
while the other holds aloft her head with an air of indif- 
ference, — not at all natural, — and by sneers and frowns 
and wry faces and contemptuous snuffs, expresses the 
opinion she has formed, since yesterday, of her fair 
neighbor. 

Faustina, who nervously turns and rustles the news- 
paper, and runs her eye over it without understanding 
a word that is in it, understood very well these demon- 
strations of resentment on the part of Prudence. But 
she is at a loss to determine the cause of that resentment. 
Is it the money of yesterday, or the tomatoes of last 
night ? In either case, she feels that she ought to be 
more conciliatory in her manner, and prepare the way 
for explanations. 


More and more Entangled. 129 

“ How pleasant it is, this morning, Mrs. Apjohn ! ” 

“ Pleasant 1 ” mutters Prudence, with a scowl, elevat- 
ing her chin another degree. And with grim satisfac- 
tion she perceives that the cut has told. 

Poor, proud Faustina ! At another time such inso- 
lence would have angered her forever. But this morn- 
ing she cannot afford to take offence. She must humble 
herself even at the feet of that miserable, low-bred wo- 
man; and, with her heart guiltily sinking, and her throat 
rebelliously rising, she must smile serenely, and respond 
sweetly, — 

“ Bather cool, however; quite a change in the weather 
since Sunday.” 

“ Change ! ” snarls Mrs. Apjohn, regarding this as an 
insulting allusion to her Sunday-afternoon adventure. 
And, giving her head a jerk, her frock a flirt, and her 
chair a hitch, with a parting look of hatred, she turns 
upon Faustina a shoulder of the very broadest and cold- 
est description. The latter was smitten dumb; not 
doubting but it was the complete and certain knowledge 
of her guilt which made Prudence so insufferably rude 
to her. Then, to increase her confusion, she perceived 
that the outrage she dared not resent was observed by 
the farmer, who had risen to go, and by the lawyer, who 
was advancing to learn the business of his female vis- 
itors. And the time had come for her to act, or at least, 
to offer some pretext for being there; and she had not 
yet formed a plan, and her wits were a chaos. She was 
glad that the lawyer addressed himself first to Mrs. Ap- 


130 


Neighbors" Wives, 


John; though she expected the next minute to hear her 
crime denounced. 

But Prudence was averse to transacting business in 
the presence of her neighbor. “ I am in no petic’lar 
hurry,” she said. “ I can wait, while you attend to that 
other person.” 

So the bland-faced lawyer turned to the “ other per- 
son.” 

“ I prefer to take my turn,” Faustina managed to say. 
“Mrs. Apjohn was here first.” 

“ I’ll wait for her,” said Prudence, obstinately. “ Nev- 
er mind who come first. The first shall be last, and 
the last shall be first, we are told,” with a significant 
scofl’ at the handsome and once haughty Faustina. 

The lawyer looked bothered, and he once more ap- 
plied to his younger visitor. 

“ I — really — cannot come in before hei ; it wouldn’t 
be fair,” Faustina stammered. 

“Wal,” exclaimed Prudence, sharply, “I hope I ain’t 
so silly as to stand upon ceremony and all that non- 
sense ! My business is ruther private; but if Mis’ Dane 
wants to stay and hear it, I’ve no petic’lar objection.” 

“ I’ll go,” — and Faustina made a fiutter toward leav- 
ing. 

“No, you needn’t, — you may as well stay. I jest as 
lives you would. Come to think on’t, I’d a leetle druther 
you would.” 

For Mrs. Apjohn, who had hitherto, for reasons of 
her own, kept her financial concerns a secret from hei 


More and more Entangled, 131 

neighbors, determined of a sudden to manifest her inde- 
pendence and command the respect of the worldlings, 
by letting her wealth be known. She drew near the 
desk. 

“ I have come, Mr. Parker, to see about that fifty 
dollars.” 

It needed not the surly, exultant glance she filing at 
Faustina to carry consternation to that trembling wo- 
man’s soul. It was time to speak. She began, — 

“As for that fifty dollars, Mrs. Apjohn, you can have 
it almost any time. I suppose,” — 

She hesitated, quite out of breath. 

“ I can, — can I ? ” said the astonished Prudence, 
while the lawyer lifted his mild eyes with a puzzled 
expression. 

“Yes — I — I have just a word to say.” 

“ You have, — have you ? I should like to know 1” 

Faustina’s face was scarlet, and she spoke in a wild 
and hurried whisper, — 

“ I hope — I assure you — your money won’t be lost. 
If you will have the patience to wait ” — 

Prudence regarded her with grisly scorn. 

“Wait? Didn’t I offer to wait? I gave you a 
chance to speak, and you wouldn’t take it. Now I’ll 
thfjnk you jest to hold your tongue,” she added, with 
overpowering arrogance, “ and let me do my business 
with Mr. Parker in peace. I’ve no idee of my money 
bein’ lost ! Trust Mr. Parker for that ! ’Tisn’t as 
though I was goin’ to look to-you for it I ” 


132 


Neighbors' Wives. 


This cool cup of impudence dashed the color from 
Faustina’s cheeks. She stood up, white and quivering 
with excitement, — defiant and desperate now that the 
worst, as she believed, had come. 

“ Threaten, — do you ? Very well ! what do I care ? 
I laugh at you ! Get your money if you can I I fancy 
you’ll get it about the time I get the tomatoes stolen 
out of our garden. Come, my lady ” (with frightful 
irony), “ you see two can play at your game. Finish 
your business with Mr. Parker ; then I’ll propose 
mine. You can guess by this time what it is ! ” 

Passion had concentrated the rash young woman’s 
scattered wits, and she had come to the quick deter- 
mination to enter a complaint against Prudence for 
a theft of vegetables, if the latter persisted in taking 
legal measures to recover the stolen money. Perhaps 
Mrs. Apjohn understood something of the malign 
intent. Certain it is that her contumeliousness was 
very suddenly suppressed. 

“ Mr. Parker, I leave it to you if I’ve said or done 
anything to merit sech treatment as this I ” 

“ Indeed,” said Mr. Parker, “ I am utterly at a loss 
to understand this unfortunate misunderstanding.” 

“ I offered to explain,” cried Faustina. “ I’m not 
ashamed to have Mr. Parker know all, if you are not.' 
IJegin now, — tell your story; then I’ll give my side,” 
and she sat down with flashing eyes. 

“ I come here,” said Prudence, “ on a quiet matter of 
business. I shall go on with it. I — am sorry — if I 


More and more Entangled. 133 

have offended you,” she humbled herself to say, the 
words sticking in her throat. “ Now, Mr. Parker, le’s 
see I About that fifty-three dollars ” — 

“ Fifty ! ” spoke up the excited Faustina. “ It was 
only fifty I Don’t try to make it more than it is.” 

The simmering wrath of Prudence came near boiling 
over again at this interference. 

“ I said fifty at first,” — she spoke patiently as she 
could, — “ but with interest it’s fifty- three and a trifle 
over.” 

“ Interest ? interest since yesterday I — but go on; go 
on ! ” said Faustina, “ see what you’ll make of it.” 

Mrs. Apjohn could hardly restrain her fury. 

“ Will you stop, and wait till I am through ? I guess 
me and Mr. Parker knows what we’re about. Interest 
since yesterday ! ” she repeated. “ Think I’m a fool ? 
It’s interest for the past year, as Mr. Parker knows.” 

Mr. Parker smiled assent, and inquired if she had the 
note. 

“ Yes, I brought it with me,” said she; “ for it’s on de- 
mand, and you spoke as if you’d like to pay it, and we’re 
making up a little sum for the first of October, which’ll 
be here next week; and if it’s jest as convenient to-day, 
why, 3mu can pay it to-day ; if not, some other time; 
though we should like it by the first, anyway.” 

It seemed to rain riddles around Faustina, who heard, 
and stared, and rubbed her forehead, as if to awaken 
some benumbed sense which would enable her to see 
through the bewildering drizzle. 

12 


134 


Neighbors^ Wives, 


“ I’m very glad to pay you now,” said Mr. Parker. 

A little time was consumed in computing the interest 
to Mrs. Apjohn’s satisfaction; which gave Faustina an 
opportunity to recover herself, and see upon what a 
brink of folly she had rushed once more, hurried thither 
by her own accusing conscience. 

“ What a simpleton I am I ” she said to herself, trem- 
bling at her narrow escape. “ Fool to think I had been 
found out, or would be I ” 

And she resolved she would not open her lips again to 
speak of the transgression which she now firmly believed 
would never iBe discovered. 

She was still hardening her heart with this determina- 
tion, when Mrs. Apjohn exclaimed, — 

“ Why, Mr. Parker, where did you git that bill ? ” 

“ The fifty ? ” said the lawyer. 

“Yes ! I declare, it’s jest like one I’ve got to hum, — 
on the Manville bank, — my mark on’t, too ! ” with in- 
creasing trepidation. 

“ I had that bill not over an hour ago, of neighbor 
Hodge,” replied Mr. Parker. 

“ Do ye know where he got it ? ” demanded Mrs. Ap- 
john, her russet face actually pale with fright. 

“No, I don’t; but I’ve no doubt he can tell you.” 

“ If he didn’t have it of my husband, then I’ve been 
robbed ! And John Apjohn wouldn’t dare — no — I — 
is Mr. Hodge to his store now ? ” And Prudence has- 
tily rising, lifted along with her the chair into which her 
ample proportions were compressed, upsetting it with a 


More and 7 nore Entangled, 135 

uoise that went to Faustina’s quaking soul like a crash 
of thunder. 

The next moment she was gone. And Mrs. Dane, 
rousing from her stupor, ran to the window to see which 
way she went. 

Prudence, issuing from the office stairway, started 
first towards Hodge & Company’s store. Then she 
changed her mind, determining to rush home and know 
for a certainty if her till had been robbed. Then 
she changed her mind again, and concluded that she had 
better see Mr. Hodge. While she was hesitating thus, 
something fell at her feet. She gave it a glance: ’twas a 
ripe and well-mellowed tomato. She did not see Tasso 
tittering in the alley; but, casting a lurid look upwards, 
caught sight of Faustina’s sleeve, disappearing from the 
window. 

Faustina was moved by another gust of impulse to 
give chase to Mrs. Apjohn. But how was she to run 
the blockade of that craft of the law, — the man-of-war- 
rants, — standing off and on to ascertain what had 
brought her into those straits ? 

“ Excuse me if I have acted rudely this morning,” she 
said. “ Circumstances have made me irritable. 1 am in 
great haste. I ” — 

She was trying to beat out of the channel betwixt the 
table and the wall; but he intercepted her, and, tack 
which way she would, she found herself running under 
his bows. 

“ What can I do for you, this morning, madam V ” 


136 


Neighbors' Wives. 


This round shot brought her to. 

“ I wish — to — raise a little money. I thought per- 
haps you might ” — 

“Might aid you. Likely enough; but you will have 
to enlighten me in regard to your plans. Sit down.” 

“ Thank you — I must go — unless ” — a new idea. “ 1 
have some jewels here which I should like to borrow 
fifty dollars on.” 

Mr. Parker smiled curiously, as he glanced at the 
trinkets, and returned them to her. 

“ This is a kind of business I never do,” he politely 
informed her.* 

Her heart sank; but she drew herself up coldly and 
proudly, as she put the dross back into her bag, beg- 
ged his pardon for calling upon him, and quickly took 
leave. 

In the street. Prudence was nowhere in sight. Paus- 
tina, in an agony of shame, apprehension, and uncer- 
tainty, was hesitating which way to go, when she saw 
Mrs. Apjohn issue from Hodge & Company’s store 
and run — actually run — up the opposite sidewalk. 
She crossed over to accost her; this time with the full 
determination to tell her everything. 

“ Mrs. Apjohn ! ” 

“ Don’t you stand in my way ! ” screamed the furious 
woman. “ Git out, you thing ! No more of your in- 
sults to me, or I’ll ” — 

Paustina stood aside as the broad red face blazed past 
her. 


More and more Entangled, 137 

“You better I — Throw any more tomatuses at me, 
if you da’s’t 1 — I’ve been robbed, or I’d ’tend to your 
case now, you stuck-up silly upstart ! ” And Prudence, 
with a glare of rage, turned her capacious back, and set 
off at an elephantine trot; while Tasso walked softly out 
of the alley, and joined Faustina. 

“Wish she’d tread on that tomato, and slip up; 
wouldn’t she make a spread ? ” observed that genteel 
youth. 

“ I won’t try again I That’s twice I’ve tried to tell 
her; and you saw how she treated me !” said the in- 
censed Faustina. “ Let her find out if she can I ” 

Tasso regarded her admiringly. “By George, you 
look splendid, now — perfic’ly superb ! ’S wuth while to 
see you mad once, if’s only to get one flash of them 
splendid eyes ! — What’s the scrape ? ” 

“ You got me into it, Tasso ! — not that I blame you. 
We mustn’t stand talking here. Come aloi g with me, 
and I’ll tell you all about it.” 

12 * 


138 


Neighbors^ Wives, 


XV. 

TRAGICAL. 

We left tlie cooper noosed. And we must beg his 
pardon for neglecting him so long in that ticklish situa- 
tion. It was necessary to bring forward the array of 
events to the moment when he heard the noise which 
precipitated the leap. That done, the reader is pre- 
pared to learn the nature of that noise ; and he will, we 
hope, be gratified to know that it is the bustle of Pru- 
dence returning. She fiings open the door, and is plung- 
ing straight into the house, bent on the examination of 
her coffers, when the lamentable spectacle meets her 
eyes. 

The chair overthrown, face to the floor and heels up, 
as if cowering in fright and horror; the kitchen pole 
sagging and shaking with its unusual burden ; the red 
silk tied to the pole; and John Apjohn tied to the red 
silk: this was the tragical picture. As when some foggy 
morning Phoebus, belated, having overslept himself, or 
lingered too long over the Olympian beef-steaks and 
coffee, looks at his watch, cries “ Bless me ! is it so late ? ” 
claps on his hat, mounts his omnibus, and whips in hot 
haste out of the stables of night into the broadway of 


Tragical, 


139 


the zodiac: like that original red-faced stage-driver, 
Prudence, all in a fume, blown as was never fat woman 
before, glows in the entrance of the misty and dismal 
kitchen; her eyes so inflamed with heat and sweat that 
she can hardly discern at first the character of the 
ghostly object strung between the zenith and nadir of 
that little universe. 

Then the truth, or at least a fragment of it, bursts in 
upon her preoccupied mind. John has discovered the 
robbery and hung himself ! The hanging was obvious ; 
though Prudence, who would have deemed the finding 
of superfluous vegetables on the door-latch a very poor 
excuse for the deed, and the loss of a large sum of money 
the very best excuse, fell naturally into an erroneous 
conjecture of the cause. 

John’s attitude was extraordinary for that of a hanged 
man. He did not kick. Was he then past kicking? 
No; he had not indulged at all in that htt'e convention- 
ality of the gallows. He had other work ^or his legs to 
do. They were straightened and stretched to their ut- 
most, whilst his feet maintained a painful bptoe posture, 
in the efibrt to avoid the extremely disagreeable exer- 
cise of dancing upon nothing ; for the sanguinary hand- 
kerchief had relented a little, and the remorseful pole 
had yielded a good deal, so that he could just reach and 
support himself on the floor, as the sagacious reader 
has no doubt foreseen, having been all this time, like the 
cooper, only imperfectly held in suspense. 

And there, in the midst of the kitchen, hung, or rather 


140 


Neighbors^ Wives. 


stood, or partly hung and partly stood, the melancholy 
man, considerably dark in the face, his eyes protruded 
and rolling, mouth open, and tongue out, with serious 
symptoms of asphyxia, and both hands raised, one above 
his head, grasping the red halter fora stay, and the other 
struggling in terror and haste with the silken knot under 
his ear. 

“ John I John Apjohn I ” ejaculated Mrs. J. A., “ what 
you doing ? ” 

“ Ich — ich — yaw ! ” said John. For you have only 
to choke a mati sufficiently in order to make him talk 
like a Dutchman. 

“ Be ye dead, John V ” cried his spouse. 

“ Yaw — yaw,” gurgled Meinherr. 

“ O John ! ” groaned Prudence, clutching the hand- 
kerchief, and swaying down the gallows to ease his wind- 
pipe. “ Tried to hang yourself I Why did you, John ? 
Oh, dear I About killed ye, has it ? ” 

- John essayed to speak, but only croaked and clucked. 

“ Oh, dear ! oh, dear ! Misfortins never come singly I 
What shall I do, if I lose you and the money too ? ” Her 
mind flew between those two bufieting disasters like a 
distracted shuttlecock. “ Don’t die just at this time, 
John 1 don’t. Can’t ye git it off now ? ” And she pulled 
the red silk like a bell-rope, in her endeavor to unhang 
him. 

“ C-c-u-t i-it ! ” cackled John. 

“Wal now, you’ve said it I” exclaimed Prudence. 

Guess you’ll git along ! Cut a good new han’kei'chief 


141 


like this ’ere I Why didn’t ye take somethin’ else, some 
old thing, if you was detarmined to hang yourself? 
Your Sunday silk ! Jest like you, John Apjohn, for all 
the world ! ” 

“ Knife — in my p-p-pocket ! ” strangled the cooper. 

“ Come ! ” cried Priid}^, losing patience. “ I wouldn’t 
try to talk if I couldn’t talk sense. Can’t you untie 
a knot ? Take your teeth I ” Query : how was he to 
apply his incisors to a knot under his own chin ? But 
Prudy did not consider that little difficulty. “ Bite it! ” 

“ C-c-a-n-t 1 ” quacked John. 

“ Can’t ! let me then ! Why, it’s a slip-noose I Why 
don’t ye slip it ? Oh ! ” moaned Prudence, “ if I was 
half as sure of gittin’ back my money as I be of gittin’ 
you out of this trap I How did we git robbed, John ? ” 

“ Robbed ? ” said John, in a more human accent. 

“ Why 1 didn’t you know it ? Ain’t that what you 
went and hung yourself for ? ” 

“ Ko ! ” 

“ And — haven’t you been to the till ? ” 

“ Ko I ” said John, getting his eyes back into his head 
again. But the relief was only temporary. 

“ Haven’t you ? Then — maybe — wait a minute I ” 
and in her agitation she let up the pole, which carried 
with it the handkerchief, which once more tightened 
around John’s gullet. 

“ Oh I what you ’b-b-bout ? ” he bubbled. 

“ Hold on ! ” cried Prudence, “ you can stan’ it a min- 
ute 1 I’m dyin’ to know I ” 


142 Neighbors' Wives, 

“ Yiz — iz — ich 1 ” choked the cooper, up again on his 
toes. 

Prudence, eager as she was to get to the till, stopped 
to right the chair and help him up on to it, where he 
stood, like a reprieved culprit, with the noose about his 
neck; while she snatched the key from the clock, flew to 
the chest, unlocked it, and unlocked the till with another 
key from beneath it. 

Her great fear was that all her money had been 
stolen ; for the possibility of a burglar taking the trouble 
to extract fifty dollars and leave the rest had not entered 
her mind. Equally great now was her joy when she saw 
the pocket-book in its place and money in the pocket- 
book. Her fright, then, had been causeless. There 
were two bills on the Manville Bank precisely similar; 
and somebody had put a private mark, exactly like her 
own, on the extraordinary duplicate. Such were her 
reflections as she came out of the bedroom, with delight 
on her countenance, and her treasure in her grasp. 

John had in the mean time slid the ends of the pole out 
of its supports, taken down his gallows, and seated him- 
self, with it across his lap, on his scaffold. And there he 
was, bent double, patiently loosening the tie of his red 
choker, when Prudy threw herself on the wood-box, ex- 
claiming, — 

“ Wehain’tbeen robbed arter all, John ! Here’s the 
wallet and all the money, I s’pose, — though it’s the 
greatest mystery about that flfty-dollar bill ! And oh ! 
it’s well for Abel Dane that he hain’t been meddlin’ with 


Tragical. 


H3 

our cash. IVe bore enough from them Danes. To 
think that stuck-up Faustiny had the impudence to fling 
one of her nasty tomatuses at me in the street, the trol- 
lop I ” 

John uttered a lugubrious whine, and dropped his 
hands from the noose as if he had half a mind to leave it 
where it was, get up, and flnish the hanging. 

“ So I KNOW now ’twas one of the Danes that tied ’em 
onto our door ! And only think ! she had the meanness 
to twit me of ’em ’fore Mr. Parker ! Oh I only give me 
a chance, and I’ll make her and Abel smart ! I’d be 
willin’ to lose a little money, if I could prove Abel Dane 
had stole it. Come, John ! don’t have that mopin’ face 
on. You look blue as a whetstun. And don’t you go to 
hangin’ yourself ag’in, if you expect me to help you down, 
for I shan’t.” Here Prudence, who, in her excitement on 
the subject of her neighbors and their insulting ways, 
had held the pocket-book open, commenced a more care- 
ful examination of its contents. “ Gracious I ” she 
screamed. 

•‘"W’as’t a spider?” inquired the cooper, in a weak 
voice. For Prudence, with all her strength of charac- 
ter and robustness of frame, had a horror of spiders, 
and he was used to hearing her shriek at them. 

“ That bill, it’s gone I We have been robbed I ” Again 
she turned over the money. “ Sure’s the world, John I 
’thout you have took it. Have you, sir ? ” 

John, who had succeeded in removing his uncomfort- 
able cravat, was resting the pole on his knee, and 


144 


Neighbors^ Wives. 


meekly rubbing his throttle, with a most piteous ex- 
pression. “ No, Prudy; I hain’t,” he answered, taking 
no interest. 

“Then, oh!” Vengeance gleamed in Mrs. Apjohn’s 
eyes. “ The bill ain’t lost; for we can both swear to’t, 
and recover it as stolen property. I left it in Parker’s 
hands; he must look to Hodge, and Hodge must look to 
Abel; and Abel, — let him be prepared to give a pretty 
strict account of how he come by that bill, or it’ll go 
hard with him I He’ll have trouble, or I’ll miss my 
guess ! A man that would serve us sech a trick with the 
tomatuses would hook our money. O Faustiny ! Faus- 
tiny I you’ll come down from your high-heeled shoes I 
you’ll haul in your horns I ” 

And Prudence, still reeking from her recent exertions, 
set oft' again at full speed for Mr. Parker’s office, — the 
cooper rolling his eyes after her with feeble astonish- 
ment, foreboding fresh woes, but scarcely comprehend- 
ing the seriousness of her charges and threats against 
the Danes. 


The Arrest, 


145 


XYI. 

THE ARREST. 

Abel, flattering himself that his pecuniary difficul- 
ties were ended, sat down that evening to enjoy himself. 

“ Thank Providence, I’ve weathered this storm. 
Though I thought I was going to have another little 
squall this afternoon. I had a lawyer’s letter, — from 
Mr. Parker, — and what do you think he wanted ? ” 

Fancy Faustina’s alarm at hearing that name, and 
seeing Abel’s honest eyes look over the tea-table at her, 
as he put the question. 

“You needn’t be so frightened,” he laughed. “I was 
a little bit startled myself, though, till I ran up to 
Parker’s office and found out what the trouble was. It 
seems Mrs. Apjohn is determined to be revenged on me 
for an offence I never dreamed of committing. She 
won’t believe it possible that anybody else could see what 
was done in our garden last Sunday, and contrive a 
sorry joke to remind her of it; but 1 must have done it I 
And how do you suppose she has gone to work to pay 
me?” 

“ I can’t imagine I ” said Faustina. 

“ I laughed in Parker’s face when he told me. She 
13 


Neighbor's Wives, 


T46 

accuses me of a robbery. At least she claims that a bill 
I gave Hodge last night was stolen from her I ” 

“ Who ever heard of such a thing ? ” said Faustina. 

“ Eidiculous, isn’t it ? I told Parker I wasn’t going to 
submit to any annoyance from that source. I referred 
him to Deacon Cole, from whom I had all the large bills 
that I paid to Hodge. But what is curious,” added 
Abel, “ 1 can’t remember receiving that particular bill, 
though I noticed it when I was settling with Hodge last 
night. Here ! hello ! you’re making my cup run over ! ” 
“ What was I thinking of ? ” And the trembling wo- 
man, to make matters worse, instead of pouring the 
superfluous liquid into the bowl, turned it into the 
cream-pitcher. 

“ I should think you had been accused of stealing, and 
might be guilty,” Abel jestingly said. Then, as he 
watched her, a grave suspicion crossed his mind, — that, 
notwithstanding her positive denial of the fact in the 
morning, it might be through some complicity or indis- 
cretion on her part that the affront for which vengeance 
was now threatened had been put upon the Apjohns, 
and that her agitation arose from the consciousness of 
having thus brought him into danger. 

“Faustina,” said he, with deep seriousness and kind- 
liness, “ if we are aware of having committed any fault 
by which our neighbors are aggrieved, we ought to 
acknowledge it, and, if possible, make reparation for it. 
The honestest course is the wisest. A word of frank 
ivowal now may save a world of vexation and vain 


The Arrest. 


147 


regret hereafter. At least, do not keep anything from 
me; but, I beg of you, if you have anything on your 
mind that 1 ought to know, speak it now.” 

It seemed that Faustina could not resist this earnest 
appeal. She felt that her husband was, after all, her 
best, her only friend ; and she longed to confess to him, 
and throw herself upon his generosity and mercy. But 
she remembered her last interview with Tasso, who had 
counselled her by no means to avow her misdeed to her 
husband or to any one, but persistently to deny it, 
whatever happened. 

“ That’s the only way when you’ve once got into a 
scrape,” said Tasso. “It’s bad; but you must lie it 
out.” 

These words she recalled, and again the dread of 
Abel’s condemnation dismayed her, and Tasso’s predic- 
tion, that the Apjohns, though they should try, could 
prove nothing, comforted her; and the false wife, in an 
evil moment, looked up at her deceived husband with 
feigned wonder, and replied, — 

“ I can’t think of anything I’ve done, Abel. Why do 
you ask ? ” 

“Well, then, never mind,” said Abel. “I’m not 
suspicious; but I feel extreme anxiety to be entirely 
free from offence toward my neighbors, and I put as 
strict questions to my own heart as I put to you. Con- 
sciousness of being in the wrong makes me a perfect 
coward ; but let me be assured of the righteousness of 
my course, and I can face any misfortune. The longer 


148 


Neighbors' Wives, 

I live, the better I know what a precious refuge truth 
is, and what a den of serpents is falsehood.” 

“ Oh, yes ! I know it ! ” assented Faustina, with the 
accent and the aspect of a saint, and with her soul in 
that den, amidst the writhing and the hissing, at the 
moment. 

Abel was convinced; for that creature could assume 
a seeming that might have deceived even the elect; and, 
shoving back his chair with satisfaction, he called to 
Melissa, who showed her face at the door with Ebby in 
her arms. 

“ Come to your supper. Give me the young gentle- 
man. Did you leave mother comfortable ? Ho, you 
Goliath of babies I ” — tossing the delighted Ebby. 
“Ha, you fat pig!” — tickling him. “Ebby has no 
cares yet to work down his flesh. Care is a jack-plane, 
that takes thick shavings from the breast and ribs. 
You little sultan!” — standing him up on his knees 
in a royal attitude; for he was a proud and si^lendid 
child. “ Wonder if my little fairy will ever be a man, 
and have whiskers, and a little boy to pull ’em, — a real, 
plump, loving little boy, to make him forget all his 
troubles when he comes home at night ? ” And, with a 
sense of his own blessedness, and with a gush of affec- 
tion, he clasped the happy boy to his heart. “ Come, 
now let’s go and see grandma.” 

“ Poor thick ga’ma ! ” said Ebby, with ais chubby fin- 
gers in the paternal hair. 

“Yes, poor sick grandma; and we’ll go and make her 
well.” 


The Arrest, 


149 


Abel had risen, and was carrying Ebb}^ gayly on his 
arm, when, as they passed the door, there came a rap 
upon it. Faustina, at the sound, grew pale, — more ap- 
prehensive, now, of fateful visitors, than Cooper John 
himself. But Abel, joyous of countenance, and free of 
soul, feeling, like Romeo, “ his bosom’s lord sit lightly 
in his throne,” — ignorant that the gleam, which illu- 
mined that moment in his life, was not sunshine, but a 
flash out of the gathering thunder-cloud, — the young 
father, holding up his boy with one hand, threw open 
the door with the other, and met the sherift’ face to face. 

The sheriff was a kind-hearted man, and, at sight of 
the happy domestic scene, which it was his thankless of- 
fice to disturb, no doubt his feelings were touched. He 
shook hands with Abel, — for they were well acquainted, 
— and gave a hard finger to the fat little hand which, at 
the paternal instigation, 'Ebby bashfully stuck out to him. 

“ Come in, won’t you ? ” cried Abel, thinking of him 
only as friend Wilkins, and not once connecting him 
with his commission. 

‘‘ Perhaps you’d better step out a minute,” answered 
Wilkins. “ I’ve a disagreeable errand to do.” 

“ Here, mamma ! take baby ! ” cried Abel. But baby 
did not want to go to mamma. And mamma had no 
word or look for baby, in the consternation of thinking 
the sheriff was there to arrest some one, — it might be 
Abel, — it might be herself! “ Well, then, where’s his 
little shawl V and papa’s hat ? We’ll go cat and see thf 
man. Hurrah I ” 


JVeighbors’ Wives. 


150 

“ Co-ah I ” crowed Ebby, throwing up his arms with 
delight. He liked papa best of anybody at all times; 
and now he and papa were going to have an adventure. 

Sheriff Wilkins was sorry to see the boy come riding 
out in triumph on his father’s arm. He felt it would be 
easier to do his errand out of sight of wife and child. 

He has such a pretty wife 1 and such a beautiful 
child I ” thought sheriff Wilkins. 

It was a moonlight evening; and there, in the quiet 
and white shine, with the shadows of the pear-tree mot- 
tling the ground at their feet, spotting old Turk’s 
shaggy back, as he snuffed suspiciously at the officer’s 
shins, and flinging an impalpable shadow-crown upon 
King Ebby’s head, — in low voices, friendly and busi- 
ness-like, the two men talked, and the errand was done; 
Faustina, meanwhile, peering eagerly from the kitchen- 
window, and those other witnesses, the stars, looking 
placidly down through the misty skylight of heaven. 

Then Abel, bearing the babe, returned into the house; 
and Faustina, like the guilty creature she was, started 
back from the window, and stood, white and still as 
the moonlight without, waiting to hear the worst. 

Abel came up to her, with a curious expression of 
amusement and disgust, — a smile married to a scowl. 

‘‘ It grows interesting I ” he said. 

“ How ? what ? ” whispered Faustina. 

“ I am arrested ! ” growled Abel. 

“Arrested ! ” Faustina tried to echo; but her voice 
refused to articulate. 


The Ai'rest. 


151 

“ Don’t be alarmed, — J am not ! ” added Abel, with 
mocking levity. “ It’s such a neat revenge I Mrs. Ap- 
’ohn is welcome to all she can make out of it. Wonder 
how it will seem to go to jail ? How would you like to 
go with me ? ” 

For an instant, Faustina thought she was arrested 
too, and that this was his mild way of breaking it to her. 

“Fudge, child I ” he laughed; “don’t take it so seri- 
ously. 1 thought it would be a good joke for you to 
insist on keeping me company, and to take Ebby along 
with us. I guess we could enjoy ourselves as well in 
jail as the Apjohns out of it.” 

“ Ebby go ! ” cooed the enterprising infant, thinking 
some pleasant journey was contemplated. 

“Ho, Ebby can’t go; he must stay at home with 
mamma, to take good care of grandma. She may as 
well not know it,” continued Abel, the smile dying, and 
leaving the scowl a grim widower. “ It would disturb 
her too much. I almost wish Turk had finished Mrs. 
Apjohn when he was about it. I shall get off, or, at all 
events, get bail in the morning; but to-night I may have 
to sleep in jail.” 

“ In jail ! O Abel ! ” said Faustina, relieved to learn 
that it was he, and not herself, who must go, yet terrified 
at the consequences of her folly. 

“ There ! don’t be childish ! ” 

Abel put his right arm about her tenderly, still hold- 
ing Ebby with the other. 

“ I don’t care a cent on my own account. I’d just as 


152 


Neighbors' Wives, 


lief go to jail as not. You and I are not to blame, and 
why should we be disturbed ? Mrs. Apjohn, or whoever 
is to blame, will get the worst of it. Or perhaps you 
think we shall be disgraced ? Villain of a husband, to 
put his innocent young wife to such a trial I You for- 
give me V ” 

“Oh, yes!” — Very magnanimous in Faustina. — 
“ But what — what proof is there ? ” 

“ Proof I ” exclaimed Abel. “ Do you think there is any 
proof ? Do you — heavens and earth, Faustina ! — do 
you imagine I am a scoundrel ? ” 

“ No, Abel I But if you had — taken money,” she 
gasped out, — “I could forgive you.” 

“ I should despise you if you could ! ” he answered, 
haughtily. “ I could never forgive myself.” 

“ But — you forgave Mrs. Apjohn,” she reminded him, 
almost pleadingly. 

“ That’s another thing. A few tomatoes. But 
money ! — I could no more take my neighbor’s cash 
than I could take his life; and I don’t suppose anybody 
really thinks I could. Deacon Cole has no recollection 
of paying me the bill Mrs. Apjohn says was stolen from 
her; and they have got up an absurd story about finding 
the envelope of one of my letters in their house, — proof 
positive that I got in and lost it there when I stole the 
money ! That’s the proofs as you call it. Come, be 
yourself, Faustina, and let me see a hopeful smile on 
your face when I go. What’s a clear conscience good 
for, if it can’t sustain us at such times ? ” 


The Arrest, 


153 


“ Oil, I am sustained I ” Faustina tried the hopefid 
smile, but it was a failure. “ I know my dear, noble 
nusband is innocent I ” And she put her lovely arms 
about his neck and kissed him. 

‘‘ Good-by,” he said, more convinced than ever of late 
that she loved him. “ 1 am on parole, and Wilkins is 
waiting for me. Tell mother I have business, and put 
her to bed. And, Faustina, whatever occurs, let us be 
true to each other and to our own consciences, and all 
will be well.” 

“We will ! we will I ” she murmured, kissing him 
again with lips as chill as dew. 

“Kow, mamma, take Ebby,” said Abel, with moist 
eyes. 

“ Xo ! no ! Ebby go I Ebby go I ” 

“ Oh, Ebby can’t go with papa to-night. Mamma take 
him.” 

“Kol no I no!” remonstrated the child, stoutly. 
And he flirted his ungrateful hands, and kicked his un- 
filial feet, when she reached to receive him; and lament- 
ed, and screamed “ Ebby go I Ebby go I” with ungov- 
ernable persistence. 

“ What shall I do ? ” said Abel, with strong parental 
emotion. “ It would almost seem that his wise little 
spirit foresees some greater wrong than we suspect. 
The instincts even of babes are so wonderful. See I he 
won’t let me go without him I ” 

And Abel looked proud and gratified, though per- 
plexed, when the subtle-sensed child shunning the guilty 


154 


Neighbors' Wives. 


parent with all his might, put his arms about the neck of 
the innocent, and hugged him with all his heart and 
strength. 

“ He knows ! ” cried Abel, with laughter and tears, lit- 
tle guessing how much more there was in the divine in- 
stincts of the infant than even his words had expressed., 
“ There now, Ebby, be papa’s good boy. Melissa, take 
him.” 

Then Ebby loosed his hold, stayed only to kiss the 
father he loved, one long kiss over his whiskers, put out 
his hands to Melissa, and, without a murmur, only the 
corners of the little serious mouth drawn down, went 
to her unresistingly, though he still refused the hospi- 
tality of the maternal bosom. 

Faustina was cut to the heart. For, though she had 
never loved her beautiful boy too well, she was jealous 
of his alfection ; and to feel, at this time, when she was 
conscious of having forfeited her husband’s esteem, that 
neither had she any part in her child’s love, made her 
seem to herself worse than a widow and childless. 

“ ’By-’by, Ebby ! — Keep good heart, Faustina ! ” 
These were Abel’s parting words; and, rejoining the 
sheriff, he walked ofl^ gayly with him to the magistrate’s. 
But Faustina, with an indescribable sense of heaviness, 
loneliness, and guilt, — wishing herself dead, wishing 
herself where she might never see husband, or child, 
or any face she ever knew, again, — shrank back into 
the house, with the long night of remorse and dread 
before her. 


The Arrest, 


155 


xvir. 

FAUSTINA CONSOLES HERSELF. 

The long, dreary night ! how could she endure it ? 
Never a woman of courage, or of resources within her- 
self against ennui, no wonder that the coming lonesome 
hours were awful as phantoms to her. She gazed out 
of the windows; the moonlight and the stillness were 
chill and forbidding. She could not content herself 
a moment with the old lady; Ebby was no comfort; 
and Melissa, who knew her secret, she was beginning to 
hate and fear. She went to her chamber; its solitari- 
ness was intolerable; a gust from the door, as she closed 
it, extinguished her light, and the moonshine came be- 
tween the curtains like the face of a ghost. 

Pitiful for one who at all times loved company so 
well, and was never willingly alone an hour in her life I 
What would she not resort to for relief from her own 
fears and imaginings ? She would have swallowed 
laudanum, if she had had any. She thought of a bottle 
of brandy in the kitchen closet. That would do. She 
would stupefy herself. 

Melissa was in the kitchen, suffering great distress of 
mind at the occurrences of the evening. 


Neighbors' Wives, 


156 

“ O Mis’ Dane I ” she exclaimed, “ ain’t it too bad he 
has to go to jail I And we know he didn’t take the 
money 1 ” 

“ Hold your tongue ! ” said Faustina. “ Of course ho 
didn’t; and they can’t do anything with him.” 

“ Can’t they ? ” cried Melissa, eagerly ; for she had 
felt the remorse of an accomplice in sharing Faustina’s 
secret. “ Oh, I’m glad I ” 

“ You stupid girl ! ” — Faustina seized her arm. “ Me- 
lissa ! Melissa 1 ” in a menacing whisper, “ hear what I 
say I As you value your oath, as you value your life, 
never breathe a syllable of what you know ! ” 

“ La, ma’am ! ” — with open-mouthed astonishment, — 
“ what will happen to me if I do ? ” 

“You will die I You will die a most sudden and 
dreadful death 1 ” 

“ La, ma’am ! will I though ? Oh dear I ” And Melissa 
began to whimper with fright, thinking her mistress 
must surely be in league with supernatural avengers. 

“ There I stop crying ! They shan’t hurt you, if you 
mind me.” There was something awfully suggestive in 
the indefinite, mysterious plural they, “ Only keep your 
oath, Melissa ! An oath’s a shocking thing to break. 
Nobody is safe afterwards.” 

“ Why, what hapj^ens to ’em ? ” 

“ Some are sent to prison, — lucky if they ever get out 
again. Some are struck by lightning. Some are mur- 
dered in broad daylight, nobody ever knows how. Some 
are found dead in their beds, though as well the night 


Faustina Consoles Herself. 


157 


before as you are this minute. A great many aisappear, 
and are never heard of again; — it’s supposed the gob- 
lins catch them.” 

“ Oh, la, ma’am 1 how you scare me I ” 

“ You needn’t be scared, only keep your oath. Ke- 
member ! Now go and put Ebby to bed, and see to the 
old woman. I can’t, — I’m sick. Where’s that brandy ? ” 

The brandy was got. Melissa was gone. And Faus- 
tina in her madness began to drink. She placed the 
bottle on the table, with water and sugar, and sat down, 
deliberately and systematically to lay siege to the castle 
of oblivion, of which drunkenness opens the gates. 

“ Hillo 1 by George, I cotched ye at it this time ! ” 

Faustina started up with trepidation; but when she 
saw what visitor had entered so softly as to stand beside 
her before she was aware, she was pacified, and sat 
down again. 

“ I’ve an excruciating toothache, Tasso ! I was put- 
ting a little brandy into it.” 

“ I’ve an excruciating toothache, too,” said Tasso. 
“ I’d like to put a little brandy into mine.” 

The liquor had begun to do its office. Faustina was 
delighted to have company. She was social; she was 
ardent; she wrung Tasso’s hand confidentially, and 
brought him a glass from the closet. 

“ Seein’ Abel’s off*, thought I’d drop in. Hi, hi I 
’tain’t a bad joke after all ! Got Mm up ’fore the jus- 
tice I Couldn’t help laughing I ” And Tasso illustrated 
with a giggle, which he quenched with a dash of sweet- 
14 


iS8 


Neighbors^ Wives, 


ened brandy and water. “ That’s good liquor, I swow ! ” 
He smacked, and filled again, confirming his verdict, — 
being no doubt a discriminating judge of strong waters; 
for he had tended bar in Boston till he was suspected of 
pilfering from the drawer, when he retired at his em- 
ployer’s urgent request, seconded by a boot which 
accelerated his progress down the stairs. He had lost 
his situation, but retained his taste. 

“ It’s dreadful, Tasso I ” said Faustina. “ He won’t 
come home to-night, I suppose. Oh, I’m so glad you’ve 
come ; it’s so horrible lonesome here ! Let’s go into 
the sitting-room; for Melissa’ll be back in a minute. 
Bring the sugar.” 

“ Toothache hain’t a chance in this house,” observed 
Tasso, smilingly holding up the bottle to the light. 

“ Come 1 I’ve so many things to tell you ! ” And 
Faustina led the way, carrying the pitcher of water 
and the candle. 


His House^ his Home no ?no?'c. 


159 


XVIII. 


“ HE ENTERED IN HIS HOUSE, HIS HOME NO MORE.” 

Later in the night, when the village streets were 
silent, and the village lights mostly extinguished, a man 
appeared briskly walking across the common, in the 
moonlight. 

It was Abel Dane. He was softly whistling a lively 
air, to which his feet kept time. He had not yet seen 
the inside of the big stone jug, as the jail was called, 
and didn’t think now that he ever would. He had had 
the good fortune to gain a hearing before the magis- 
trate that night, and to get admitted to bail. Deacon 
Cole himself had volunteered to be his surety. Every- 
body was inclined to take a jocular view of the charge 
against him. And Abel was happy; congratulating 
himself that Mrs. Apjohn’s malice was baffled, and enjoy- 
ing, in pleasant anticipation, Faustina’s surprise and 
delight at his unexpected return. 

Eor Abel, poor fellow, was so eager to snatch at every 
bubble of circumstance in which his hope or fancy saw 
glimmer some floating, unsubstantial image of domestic 
happiness ! He was rushing to grasp a very large and 
extremely flattering bubble of this description now. His 


i6o Neighbors' Wives. 

\vife’s distress, on seeing him torn from her embrace 
and dragged away to jail, — so to speak, — had moved 
him greatly. “ After all,” he thought, “ she loves me. A 
change is taking place in her character, I sincerely hope. 
She never manifested so much concern for my welfare be- 
fore. And she said she could forgive me, even if I had 
taken money ! Such charity, such affection, I did not 
expect to find in her. Who knows but the faults of hei 
spoiled girlhood and false education may be cured, and 
she may prove a true wife and mother after all ? God 
grant it ! ” he murmured aloud, his eyes upturned mistily 
to the moonbeams, his features glowing and surcharged 
with the emotion of his prayer. 

He hurried on. He saw a light in his own house. 
“ Poor girl ! she is too anxious to sleep ! She could 
not go to bed and rest while I was supposed to be 
locked up in stone walls. Foolish child ! But I am 
glad she is wakeful; I wouldn’t have her make light of 
my arrest, though I do. I can imagine how lonesome 
she is, sitting up, thinking of me. I’ll go softly to the 
door, and surprise her. How I shall know, — I’ll take 
her behavior as a sign, — whether she really loves me.” 

He drew near. He heard — what ? Laughter ! That 
did not please him so well. 

“ Who has she got there ? ” He listened. “ Tasso 
Smith 1 ” 

He went to the kitchen door; it was unfastened. He 
entered, and closed it after him. The moon lighted his 
steps, and he advanced, stepping noiselessly, to the 


His Hotise^ his Home no more, i6i 

Bitting-room door. His purpose to afford Faustina a 
surprise had become a dark and deadly purpose, and 
the blackness of darkness clothed his soul. He waited; 
for, in that first terrible revulsion, he felt that Tasso 
could not fall into his hands without danger, and he 
feared the violence of his own rage in confronting 
Faustina. He was determined to be calm; yet it was 
not easy to get his wrath under control, with the intol- 
erable tittering from within irritating it like sputters 
of vitriol. 

When his hand was quite steady, he found the door- 
knob, touched it warily, turned it charily, opened it 
with silence and caution, and laid bare the scene within. 

Do you think this dishonor/ible in Abel ? No matter. 
In his place you would very likely have acted dishon- 
orably too. 

The scene: A table, with the tools of intoxication 
upon it; beside it two chairs, unsuitably near together. 
In that nearest the door you saw the nice youth, Tasso 
Smith, — one hand encircling a glass which rested on 
the edge of the table, the other resting familiarly on 
the back of the chair beyond, — his countenance, like 
ofily cream, wrinkled up with the last inanity of tipsy 
merriment. 

In that other chair sat Faustina, her eyes swimming 
with an unmistakable tendency to double-vision, and 
her lovely head so tipsy that she could hardly resist its 
procli\'ity to rest on Tasso’s shoulder. A pretty pic- 
ture for a husband ! 


14 * 


i 62 


Neighbors^ Wives, 


One minute, — two minutes, the petite comedy went ^ 
on; two unconscious actors playing their parts with 
perfect naturalness and abandonment, such as you sel- 
dom see on the stage, before an intensely interested 
audience of one. 

Then you might have heard a fall. Mr. Smith heard 
it as soon as anybody. Indeed, something had hap- 
pened to that individual. He had tumbled, in a most 
astonishingly sudden and mysterious manner, under the 
table. Over him stood Abel, and in Abel’s hand was 
the chair which had been jerked from beneath him. 
And there was danger in the atmosphere, as the sa- 
gacious youth sniffed readily when once he put out his 
head carefully from under the table and carefully drew 
it back again. He had done curing the toothache, and 
done tittering, too, for that night. 

But Faustina laughed on, not perceiving the spectre 
of wrath that had stalked in behind her, and now stood 
holding her companion’s tilted chair. She looked down 
by the table, and was presently aware of a pair of per- 
pendicular legs, not Tasso’s. Or was Mr. Smith double, 
and had he four legs ? He appeared to be rapidly crawl- 
ing off with a horizontal pair, and, at the same time, to 
be standing firmly on the two at her side. 

She looked up, and was shocked into something like 
sobriety by the apparition of her husband. 

“ Abel ! — why — where — I thought you — is it morn- 
ing ? ” And she winked to see if it was day, thinking 
he had passed the night in jail and come home and 
caught her carousing. 


His House ^ his Home no more. 163 

Abel stood motionless and white, still clinching the 
chair, as if diabolically tempted to break it over the 
head of Tasso, rising from behind the table and retreat- 
ing, with the grimace of a scared monkey, to the door. 
But with extraordinary self-control, he neither spoke 
nor stirred until Mr. Smith had slunk out; then he 
kicked his hat after him, — for that young gentleman 
had quite forgotten that he was bareheaded, — broke 
the cane that stood in the corner, and threw the splin- 
ters into the retiring face. Then, having closed and 
locked the door, he turned and confronted Faustina. 


164 


Neighbors^ Wives » 


XIX. 

HUSBAND AND WIFE. 

“Why — Abel — what’s the matter?” gasped the 
wretched woman, trying to gild her guilty fright with 
smiles. 

“ My wife I — disgraced forever I ” 

These words, uttered incoherently, with suppressed 
fury, carried to the heart of the half-sobered Faustina 
the stunning conviction that all had been discovered. 
She slipped down upon her knees before him. 

“ Mercy 1 mercy ! Don’t cast me off, Abel, — don’t ! 
I will tell you everything ! ” 

“ Where did you get these trinkets ? ” For tlie jewels 
had been brought out, and now lay on the table. 

“ I bought them, Abel.” 

“ You bought them ! With whose money ? ” 

“With — with yours. I took it from the drawer. 
Yesterday Tasso came and showed them to me, and 
made me buy them.” 

“ Faustina, don’t dare to tell me anything but the 
truth now ! ” he muttered, wringing her wrist. 

“I won’t. I’ll tell you everything. Bat, oh, don’t 
cast me off ! Don’t shame me before the world ! I’ve 


Husband and Wife, 


165 

been a bad and selfish wife to you, I know; but I’ll be 
better. Oh, I’ll be so true always, always, Abel I if you 
won’t expose me now.” 

“ Speak ! ” said Abel, — hoarse, bewildered, chills of a 
strange new terror creeping over him. “What have 
you done ? ” 

“ I was so frightened afterward, — I thought you 
would kill me when you missed the money ! ” — 

“ How much was it ? ” 

“ Fifty dollars.” 

Abel dropped her ar?n and staggered back. He knew 
all. Ho need for her to tell him more. But she talked 
on, eager in self-excuse. 

“ I went to borrow it of Mrs. Apjohn. But she 
wasn’t there when I took it; and I didn’t dare to go and 
tell her of it, — and you had paid the money to Mr. 
Hodge, — and, — O Abel ! I have been so wretched I If 
you only knew, you would have mercy ! Don’t expose 
me now, and cast me off ! — don’t let me go to jail I 
don’t ! don’t ! don’t ! ” 

In the most abject servility, with passionate terror and 
entreaty, she pleaded, kneeling and wringing her hands. 
Abel had sat down. Under the calamity that had smit- 
ten him, he could not stand. He felt weak and shattered 
and lost. 

“ Oh, do pity me I ” she prayed, creeping toward him. 
“You pity others 1 You forgave Mrs. Apjohn the to- 
matoes. She is nothing to you, and I am your wife; 


Neighbors' Wives, 


1 66 

and such a wife I will be to you, O Abel I if you will 
only be merciful to me now 1 ” 

She cut lier knee on something sharp. It was Tasso’s 
glass, which had been thrown down and broken when he 
fell. It reminded her of the carousal which had been 
interrupted. Sobered more and more, she felt now how 
unpardonable that scene must have appeared in Abel’s 
eyes. 

“ I didn’t know what to do. I was so wretched, I felt 
such remorse when you were gone. I thought I couldn’t 
live through the night. I was wild, frantic, and I got 
the brandy. I never did such a thing before, — you 
know I never did. I meant to kill myself. I hoped I 
should. I wish I had 1 Then Tasso came in. There 
was never anything more between us than you saw to- 
night, — nor half so much. I swear it I I’ll swear it on 
the Bible, and call Heaven to witness ! It was the bran- 
dy, it was the brandy, Abel I Oh, don’t look so stony 
and cruel at me; for I see my fate in your eyes ! They 
are like dead men’s eyes, — there’s no compassion in 
them. Don’t, don’t look at me so, Abel I ” And she 
grovelled at his feet. 

Still he made no motion, but sat as he had fallen, with 
a blind and frozen look, which well might awe Faustina. 

“ Abel ! dear Abel ! my husband ! remember how 
you have loved me I ” 

Her voice, which had been wild and strong in its elo- 
quence of fear, now grew tremulous and fond. She 
kissed his feet. She wept and laughed. “ Oh, you will 


Husband and Wife, 


167 


love me again ! You do love me ! Think how happy 
we have been ! And we will be happier now. For I 
shall never care for anybody or anything but you after 
this. If you only forgive me, — and I know you will ! 
looking up in his face with pleading sweetness and tears. 
“ You are so good, Abel ! ” And she flung herself upon 
his bosom, kissing and clinging with the witchery she 
knew so well how to use. 

But Abel was inexorable. Her caresses — he loathed 
them. 

“ Get off ! ” said he. She turned from him with such 
semblance of despair that he could not but relent a 
little. “Go to bed. You are not yourself to-night; 
and I am sick ! In the morning I will tell you what I 
will do.” 

“ I can’t go till you forgive me ! ” she answered, 
fawning upon him, and covering his hand with kisses. 
“ Why do you say, ‘ Go to bed f ’ It was always, ‘ Come 
to bedi till now. — Oh, I see by your face, so cold, so 
cold, that I am not to be your wife any more ! ” 

She fell upon the floor. There she lay motionless and 
unnoticed for many minutes. Then he stooped, sternly 
commanding her, and lifted her up. 

“ Come with me ! ” 

“ Oh, you hurt me, Abel I Your hand is iron ! ” 

“ There is iron in my soul I ” said Abel. 

“ Pity me, pity me, Abel 1 ” she implored, “ when I 
Bufler so ! ” 


Neighbors^ Wives. 


1 68 

“ You suffer ! And I ? Who will pity me ? Alone; 
and the ruins fall upon me ! ” 

“ Dear Abel, I pity you. Don’t look so terrible ! You 
are not alone, — I am with you.” 

For a minute he stood in a sort of trance, his visage 
pallid and awful, his eyes fixed on vacancy. She watched 
him,, in dread and distress, waiting for him tp look at 
her and speak. 

“ Faustina,” he said, with deep and strange calmness 

— but there was something sepulchral in his voice, — 
“do you know that I am under bonds to answer for 
your crime?” 

“ My crime ! ” she gasped. 

“ Crime ! ” he repeated. “ It is worse than simple 
larceny, — it is house-breaking. I thought it an idle ac- 
cusation till now. Now I see what it means. It means 
dishonor. It means endless disgrace. It means trial, 
conviction, sentence, — for one of us. Years in prison, 

— for one of us. Does any one know of your guilt ? ” 
“ No one, — no one but you. And you will spare me, 

Abel I dear Abel ! won’t you ? ” Thus she lied, and 
pleaded. 

“ And suffer in your place I ” 

“ No, no, Abel. You are innocent. They cannot 
punish you for what you have not done. And you are 
a man ! ” 

He smiled; but his smile was even more frightful to 
her than his frown. 

“ Punishment has no terrors for me now. I think I 


Husband and Wife. 169 

shall soon be glad to hide my head even in prison. If 
it wasn’t for Ebby — ray boy ! ” — 

“ What do you mean ? ” she cried. “ Don’t frighten 
me so, Abel I They can’t imprison yoit, — how can 
they ? ” 

“ You have made your act appear as my act. You 
did the robbery, and I received and used the money. 
People know how I was distressed for money at the 
time; — that is evidence against me. The Apjolms 
identify the stolen bill ; they can produce proof to show 
how they came by it, which I cannot do. Then there 
is one of my letter-envelopes, — how came it in their 
house ? They found it rolled up in the kitchen.” 

“ I don’t know, — I don’t know ! ” said Faustina. 

“ I know I ” answered Abel. “ If others only knew ! ” 
A powerful emotion shook him, as he looked upon her, 
so young and beautiful and proud, and thought of her 
ruin and disgrace. “ ’Twas one of your curl-papers. 
You lost it when you took the money. And you stopped 
the clock, when you took the key of the chest out of it. 
Did you leave any other trace of your guilt ? ” 

Then Faustina’s strength went from her, and hope 
went with it, and despair possessed her. 

“ I will certainly kill myself, Abel I ” she said. 

“ Would one of us had died already ! ” he answered. 
“ But killing ourselves now will not mend matters. I 
am sick enough of the world, to leave it very willingly. 
But I shall bide my time. Come I ” 

She followed him, walking in a sullen stupor. He 
15 


170 Neighbors' Wives, 

conducted her to her chamber, — their chamber hereto- 
fore, — where Ebby lay sweetly slumbering. He led 
her to the bedside; and there they both stood for some 
moments gazing upon the lovely little sleeper, each with 
what different thoughts I 

“ Go to bed,” then said Abel. 

She obeyed him without word or resistance. He 
waited till she had lain down. Then he put his arms 
gently about the unconscious babe, and took him from 
her side. At that she roused. 

“ Oh I are you going to leave me ? ” 

“ Yes, Faustina.” 

“ Go, then I Be kind and forgiving to every one but me. 
Blit leave me my child, — our child, Abel, — won’t you?” 

“ No, Faustina.” 

Then she turned upon her face, burying it in the pil- 
low, which she clutched and bit convulsively. 

And bearing the dewy-cheeked infant in his arms, 
Abel went out, closed the door behind him gently and 
firmly, and entered another room. 

It was the room that had been Eliza’s. In the bed 
that had been Eliza’s he laid down his precious bur- 
den, and threw himself heavily down beside him. 

“ Papa ! papa I ” said Ebby, waking, and glad to find 
the whiskers he loved on his face. And stretching up 
his little arms, he hugged the dear good head of his 
father to his sweet moist bosom. 

Abel sobbed. And there he lay, thinking of his des- 
olation and remembering his sins Who could help 


Husoand and Wife, 


171 


him ? God can help us, but not always within our- 
selves. He uses instruments and mediators. Abel 
longed for human sympathy and aid. And he thought 
of one whom he had wronged. 

“ How I wronged her I ” he said, and gnashed his 
teeth. “Idiot that I was I and she so wise and good ! 
Nobody but her ! nobody but her I ” he repeated, think- 
ing of those who, out of all the world, might be of 
service to him then. “ And I grieved her away ! 0 my 

baby ! — my mother ! — my good name among men I 
— if only Eliza was here ! ” 

A soothing influence stole over him, as he thought of 
her. Something of her spirit seemed still to pervade 
the room; and he found rest in it. Then what if she 
herself were there ? His longing for her, the cry of 
his inmost soul became irresistible. He arose, and 
penned the brief letter which called her home; then 
returned to bed, drew Ebby to his heart, and slept the 
sleep of the innocent. 


172 


Neighbors' Wives, 


XX. 

THE RETURN OF ELIZA. 

The letter went the next day to its destination. The 
day after was Saturday. Would Eliza be here before 
the Sabbath ? Would she come at all ? 

It is another moonshiny night; — the chill mists 
rising, the village dogs barking, the elm-trees droop- 
ing in the dew, with now and then a liquid rustle, and 
a young woman hurrying across the common through 
shadow and gloom. 

It is a plain, earnest face you see under the brown 
bonnet, — pale, in the moonlight, and full of anxious 
thought, — gazing toward Abel’s house. Why does her 
bosom swell so, and her heart beat so fast ? 

Oh, the realization that she is going home, — that 
here she is again in sight of the house, which stands 
with its white gable to the moon, waiting as in the well- 
remembered bygone sheeny nights I Ko, it is not a 
dream, Eliza; you are fully awake. 

The feeling of the old, frequented paths under her 
feet; the familiar scent of the soil and trees; Abel’s 
shop. Cooper John’s shop, and Cooper John’s squatty 
house, which always to her mind bore such a ludicrous 


The Return of Eliza, 


173 


likeness to good Mrs. Apjohn; again, the night- fog steal- 
ing up from the hollow, mingled with which comes an 
indefinable, tantalizing sense of change in the native 
atmosphere of the town; something, after all, foreign 
and forbidding in the features of the landscape lying 
dim in the moonlight; — all this makes her strangely 
afraid and strangely glad. 

Her hands are encumbered with travelling-gear; yet 
she walks swiftly. And now she is near the gate; and 
now she pauses and shrinks. What is this that rushes 
upon her? All the past in a flood, — the old, warm 
current of love; the cutting ice of disappointment; 
the wrecks of happiness; faces of dead friendships; 
pleasures and hopes and pains; all which she sees, like 
a drowning person, in one wild, stifling instant of time. 

Then comes a sudden dash through the yard. Old 
Turk, who has been for the last hour assiduously sere- 
nading the moon, — his big, bluff barytone, distinguish- 
able afar ofi* amid the chorus of village curs, — leaves 
that thankless occupation, gives a bounce at the gate, 
which flies open, and, with yelps of furious delight and 
frenzied wags of tail, madly leaping and licking, gives 
her a devouring welcome. Eliza drops bag and band- 
box, and hugs the dear old monster in her arms, crying 
for very joy. 

“ Old Turk ! dear Turk I There, stop, you saucy 
boy ! Can’t you be glad without tearing me to pieces ? 
You dear fellow ! Down ! ” 

To be thus remembered and greeted by her dumb 
15 ^ 


174 


neighbor's Wives. 


friend is a great comfort. She accepts /t as a good 
omen, and her heart grows light, — only to grow heavy 
again, however, a moment later. 

Her hand is on the latch. Shall she open, as in old 
times, — the good old times, forever past, when she 
was as the mistress of that house ? She remembers 
that another woman is mistress there now, and, awk- 
ward and unnatural as it seems, she knocks like any 
wayfarer. What tremor, what suspense, — waiting 
there on that door-step for some one to open unto her ! 
Who will come ? Will Abel’s face be the first to meet 
her, or the beautiful Faustina’s, which she somehow 
dreads, or dear old Mrs. Dane’s, benevolent and be- 
loved ? Oh, to think she is now to see these faces once 
more, — that the moment, which she thought would 
never come, has at last arrived ! If only the door 
would open I But it doesn’t. 

She knocks again, less timidly, — louder even than 
her heart is knocking all this time. And now there is a 
stir within. She is aware of some one peeping out at 
her from the window. Then the door is cautiously 
opened,, and the edge of a face appears, — a face un- 
known to Eliza. 

“ Is Abel — Mr. Dane — at home ? ” 

Alas, Eliza I that ever you should come to that door 
^vith such a formal question, and stand coldly outside 
till a stranger’s tongue has answered it I 
“No; gone away,” says the face through the crack — 
the door yielding only about a hand’s breadth. 


The Return of Eliza. 


175 


In her disappointment, Eliza is half a mind to go 
tway too, and come again no more. Indeed, what busi- 
ness has she there ? The letter which brought her — 
she must have merely dreamed of such a letter. Or, 
even were it a reality, why was she so foolishly eager to 
answer the summons ? Abel did not expect she would 
be, it is evident. Since he had been so long reticent and 
cold, ought she not to be ashamed of her ready and ar- 
dent zeal ? 

“ I would like to see old Mrs. Dane,” she falters. 

“She’s wuis; don’t see nobody,” replies the face 
through the crack. 

What shall she do ? Is this then coming home ? Is 
this the hour she looked forward to with such palpitat- 
ing hope during her long journey ? She turns half 
round. She sees the moon shining on the trees and fields 
as she has seen it a hundred times before. Its cold 
beams are more hospitable than the glimpse of light in 
the forbidden house. The wide, roofiess night is not 
so solitary as this half-shut guarded door. “ Abel I 
Abel ! ” says her heart, “ if you sent for me, why are you 
not here to welcome me ? ” 

“ But this is morbid,” says her better sense. 

“ Is young Mrs. Dane at home ? ” she forces herself to 
inijuire. 

“ Yes’m ; but she’s sick a-bed too. Don’t see no- 
body.” 

This, then, is Abel’s trouble, Eliza thinks. His wife 
is ill, — perhaps dying, — and she has been sent for to 


176 Neighbors' Wives, 

save for him that precious life. Well, she will do her 
duty. 

“ Will Abel be home soon ? ” 

“ Don’t know. Guess bimeby. Didn’t say, when he 
went out.” 

“ I will come in and wait,” says Eliza. Still the door 
does not open; and the face at the crack looks out sus- 
]3iciously at her, with a foolish, doubting smile. 

“ Do you know if they were expecting any one to- 
night ? ” 

“ Guess not; hain’theerd 'em say.” 

“ This used to be my home. Did you ever hear them 
speak of Eliza ? ” 

At which word, Turk, grown impatient of delay^ 
brushes past her, forcing the door. 

“ La, ma’am ! is this Eliza ? ” cries the flustered 
housemaid, recovering from Turk and the surprise. 
“ I’ve heerd old Mrs. Dane talk of you ever so many 
times ! My name’s Melissy, — Melissy Jones, ye 
know ; though mabby ye never heerd of me afore, 
seeiu' as how my folks only jest moved into the place a 
little more’u a year ago. Old Mrs. Dane ’ll be dreadful 
tickled to see ye, I know I La, I thought ’twas a strag- 
gler I and I’m kind o’ skeery, folks bein’ sick so, and 
Abel away from home. Take a seat and set down, won’t 
ye?” 

Eliza is gazing vacantly about the room, and begin- 
ning to take ofl‘ her things. What object is it which 
suddenly fixes her sight ? , n 


The Return of Eliza, 


177 


That’s baby, — that’s Ebby,” Melissa explains. “ I 
was lonesome, so 1 kep’ him up for comp’ny; but, la I 
be dropt right oft' to sleep, jest as he newer will evenings 
when we want him to.” 

In the rocking-chair, sunken in pillows, dimpled 
cheek on dimpled arm, with the smile of some happy 
dream just stirring the sweet mouth, the chubby cherub 
sleeps. Eliza bends over him, kneeling. Her face, 
bowed low, is hidden from Melissa. Long she gazes, 
silent. O fortunate Abel, parent of that darling boy I 
O proud Faustina, to be the mother, and the father’s 
cherished wife I Eliza touches, with quivering lips, the 
lily-white, dewy skin, the warm, aromatic, rosy mouth. 
Then she says, calmly, — 

“ He looks like Abel, I think.” 

“Yes’m,” assents Melissa, “he dooes. Most folks 
thinks he favors his pa the most.” 

“ How long has his mother been sick ? ” 

“ Only sence yist’day.” 

“ Is she very sick ? ” asks Eliza, surprised. 

“ Don’t know. Ferty considerable, — though not very, 
J guess,” Melissa confusedly answers. 

“ Does she see the doctor ? ” 

“No, ma’am; she don’t see nobody. Better take a 
seat and set down.” 

Melissa would like to change the subject. Eliza, 
seating herself, persists in questioning her. 

“But she must see somebody. Who takes her food 
to her ? ” 


178 


Neigh bars’ Wives . 


“I do; but she won’t eat, and she sca’celj looks at 
me, but keeps her head kivered up under the bedclo’es. 
Oh, dear ! ” sighs Melissa, remembering the secret, 
which she dreads to keep, yet fears to betray. 

“ J3ut she sees her husband ! ” says the astonished 
Eliza. 

“ Ruther guess not; for he sleeps in t’other room 
now, ’long ’ith Ebby.” 

“ How long has he done so ? ” 

“ Only last night and the night afore, ma’am.” 

“ She can’t be very sick, then, — or else he would go 
to her.” 

“ Wal, I do’no; she don’t git up. I guess it’s trouble 
more’n anything.” 

“ What trouble ? Tell me ! I am come to help them, 
and I must know.” 

“ Don’t ax me ! it’s too bad I Oh, dear I ” And up 
goes Melissa’s apron, and down goes her face into it, 
with a sob. 

Eliza, with her quick sense of the comical, smiles, but 
faintly. There is no laughter in her heart to-night. 

“ Melissa,” — she assumes authority, — “ put down 
your apron ! ” 

The girl only clutches it more closely to her weeping 
face. 

“ Will crying mend matters ? Don’t keep me in 
suspense 1 Tell me at once ! ” 

“O ma’am,” — Melissa uncovers her interesting linea- 
ments, but holds the apron under them with both hands, 


The Return of Eliza, 


179 


like a basin, to catch the sacred drops of grief, — “ it’s 
all sence day before yist’day. She was well enough 
then. But that night — that night,” — another explosion 
is coming; she has the extinguisher ready, — “he — he 

— was took up for stealing ! ” 

This time she flings the apron completely over her 
head, and rocks and wrings herself in it tempestuously. 
Eliza is calm, you would say. But how very white ! It 
is a minute before she can get herself heard. She takes 
hold of Melissa’s hands as she would a child’s, and en- 
deavors to remove the muffler. At length the weeper 
permits her frizzled head and one corner of the corru- 
gated countenance to be uncovered, peeps out with one 
streaming red eye over the saturated calico, and whim- 
pers forth the story. It is given in bursts and snatches, 
incoherently enough ; and, of course, one very important 
portion of it is suppressed, in terror of her mistress and 
her oath. 

Eliza listens, sick at her very soul. 

“ And Abel is in jail to-night I Why didn’t you tell 
me ? ” . , 

“ Oh, he ain’t I He’s innocent, ye know. And they 
can’t keep him in jail, can they ? Say ! ” Both eyes 
come out of their retreat, and appeal earnestly to Eliza, 

— “ Do you s’pose they can ? ” 

“ How do you know he is innocent ? ” 

“ Oh, I don’t know — only — his wife says he is I ” so 
much she dares confess. 

“ If she says so, and thinks so, why does she give up 


i8o 


Neighbors^ Wives, 


to the shame and misery of the thing, and keep her bed, 
instead of rising, like a woman, to cheer and help him ? 
demands Eliza, her heart growing great within her. “ I 
am sure he is innocent ! My Abel ! steal ? — Come, 
come, Melissa I We have something else to do besides 
lying in bed or hiding our heads in our aprons. Go and 
tell mother I have come. It will comfort her to see me. 
I know. Has she heard about Abel ? ” 

“ I guess he told her yesterday,” answered Melissa, 
finding a dry edge of her apron to wipe up with. 
“ They was alone together for ever so long; and I could 
see something had a’most killed her afterwards. Oh, I’m 
so glad you’ve come 1 ” — looking up with hope and 
confidence at Eliza. “The house seems so dreadful 
lonesome I Le’me pump you some water, if you want 
to wash. La, now, there’s Ebby waking up jest at the 
wrong time ! ” 

“ I’ll take care of him. Go and prepare mother f(»r 
seeing me,” said Eliza. 


Ho7ne once More, 


i8i 


XXL 

HOME ONCE MORE. 

Now, with slow footsteps and a leaden heart, Abel 
Dane came home to his dishonored house. For some 
moments he stood gloomily outside, without the cour- 
age to enter. His wife sullen and mad with he knew 
not what remorse or shame, his child worse than moth- 
erless, his own mother broken-hearted by the disgrace ol 
his arrest, though she knew not all ; — what was then 
left to him ? And Eliza had not come, as he believed, 
and would not come, he feared. 

He opened the door. Turk bounced upon him, her- 
alding the good news. And there, demurely sitting, 
with Ebby awake and happy in her arms — who ¥ 
Could he believe his eyes ? 

‘‘ Eliza ! ” He ran to embrace her. “ Bless you for 
this, Eliza ! ” And he bowed himself. 

She did not rise. “My brother,” she whispered. 
And with one arm holding his infant boy, and the other 
gathering his head to her bosom as he knelt, she felt 
that she w^as blessed. 

“ How came you here ? ” he asked, holding her hand, 
and looking at her in a kind of rapture. “ I have been 
16 


i 82 


Neighbors^ Wives, 


to meet you. I was never so disappointed as when the 
stage came without you. I thought I should have to 
wait till next week, and that maybe you wouldn’t come 
at all.” 

“ If I had only known you would meet me ! ” said 
Eliza. “It would have saved me so much. But the 
stage was coming by the common; so I got out, and ran 
across. And here I am, though we missed each other.” 

“ And glad to be home again ? ” he tenderly inquired. 

“ I am glad now, — now that you have come ; for I 
see you are glad.” 

“ Glad ? Eliza,” — and he stroked her hand, still 
gazing at her with joy and tears. “ I can bear any- 
thing now. You have heard ? ” 

“ Melissa has told me.” 

“ And you believe in me ? ” 

“ Implicitly, Abel.” 

“ I knew you would I And you have forgiven me ? ” 

“ Forgiven you ? ” 

“ Yes; for I was very harsh, very unjust to you, sis- 
ter.” 

“ But you did not mean to be,” she answered, with 
melting gentleness. 

“Xo, I did not; I was so wise and virtuous in my 
own conceit. But, Eliza, you were so much wiser and 
better than I, that I am amazed, I am incensed at my- 
self when I think how we parted. I feel like the prodi- 
gal son. I have been wandering, Eliza, wandering I 
Now I am once more at home. But I am selfish,” he 


Home once More. 


183 

continued, saddening; “I have no such home to offer 
you as you left; and, if you stay, it will be to sacrifice 
your better interests, and share my broken hopes.” 

“ I never had any interests that were not yours,” an- 
swered Eliza “ And as for your broken hopes, I will 
mend them ! ” — her pale face beaming so with love 
and truth that it warmed his inmost heart. 

And now he saw how time and absence had changed 
her. She had grown older; but years and affliction had 
not curdled the current of her life. Deep and clear and 
bright it shone out upon him from the blue of her pure 
eyes; and the tones of her voice betrayed how musical 
and how full were the waters of that inward stream. 

For Eliza, in those years, had not lain supinely on 
the bed of disappointment, as many do, while brooding 
sorrow sucks their blood ; but, by a generous activity 
of hands and head and heart, she had driven away that 
vampire; and her soul, hungering in the wilderness for 
human sympathy, had been fed by manna from God; 
and, on the rough brier of trial, for her had blossomed 
the white rose of iieace. 

Who has not suffered ? Bereavement comes some 
time to all, and it depends upon ourselves whether it 
shall be unto us a blessing or a curse. Like the dwarfed 
little old woman of the story-book, when ill-received by 
a grumbling and grudging housewife, it proves an evil 
guest, and goes not without leaving behind some bitter 
token of resentment. Yet, when the same dark and 
unlovely disguise enters the abode of a cheerful and, 


184 


Neighbors' Wives. 


though poor, benevolent host, and is kindly entertained, 
a wondrous charm enters with it, — the larder is re- 
plenished, the fire never goes out, the household work is 
done by unseen hands, fioors are miraculously swept 
over night, and all troublesome and venomous insects 
are banished; till, by-and-by, the visitor, departing, lets 
fall the tattered mantle and brown hood; the fairy 
stands an instant revealed, then leaps, with a laugh, 
upon a yellow-tailed sunbeam, and vanishes, leaving the 
house filled with her beautiful gifts. 

Unto Eliza had come such a fairy in that humble, still 
abode, her breast; and the cupboard of its charities had 
been kept well supplied, and the fire of the heart had 
not failed, and those busy fingers, the faculties, were 
sped magically in their tasks; and lo, when the night was 
gone, and the morning of consolation come, the world’s 
dust was found swept clean from the chambers ! and, 
though the fairy had fiown, her charm and her blessing 
remained; all because Eliza had used gentle behavior 
towards her unwelcome guest, and had not shut her 
door against the messenger of God. 

“ Mamma ! ” said Ebby, exploring with his pleased 
fingers the new, kind face, with which he already felt 
himself at home. And he looked at his father, and again 
pointed at Eliza, and repeated, with a little crow of de- 
light, “ mamma ! ” — curiously feeling the eyes and 
mouth and chin, which he evidently ound beautiful, 
whatever others might think. 

Abel was strangely affected. 


Home once Mo? e. 


iSs 

“Yes, precious!” said Eliza, smiling with suffused 
eyes, “ I will be his mamma if ever he needs one. But 
I am his auntie now.” 

“ Mamma I ” insisted Ebby, trying to put his thumb 
into her nose. “ Dood mamma 1 ” 

Abel trembled, and clinched his teeth hard, and tried 
to fix his features, which worked and quivered in spite 
of him. Eliza did not speak, but bent over the boy, 
whom she held close to her heart, gazing upon him with 
absorbing tenderness ; bathing him, so to speak, in soft- 
est dews of blessing from the heaven of her soul. 

Oh, had his mother such a soul, and such a heart of 
love I the father thought. But what now was the use, 
he added bitterly within himself, of vain wishes or re-, 
grets ? 

“ I was sorry afterwards that 1 had written you such 
a letter,” he said. “ What did you think ? ” 

“I knew you were having a good deal of trouble 
about money.” 

“ You knew 1 ” interrupted Abel. “ How ? ” 

“ By letters. I have two or three correspondents. 1 
heard you were likely to fail; so I thought — I hoped — 
your distress was nothing worse than that” 

“Eliza!” — a new revelation had suddenly broken 
in upon Abel, — “ one mystery is explained ! Eool, that 
I didn’t think of you before ! ” 

“ Of me ? ” said Eliza. 

“ Look in my eyes ! ’Twas you that sent me that 
draft for a hundred dollars ! You had it mailed from 


16 * 


Neighbors' Wives. 


i86 

Boston, that I might not suspect you. And that after 
all my unkind ti’eatment of you ! ” And Abel bent his 
face upon her hand, which he wrung and kissed with 
mingled gratitude and self-reproach. 

It is not probable that Eliza was sorry now to have 
her benevolent action known. And somehow the emo- 
tion he betrayed thrilled a nerve of joy in her breast. 

“I told you,” she murmured, “ that I have no' interests 
apart from yours. I never had. It seemed that an 
eternity of silence could not make me forget that I was 
still your sister, — that I owed more to you than I could 
ever repay.” 

“ O ’Liza, ’Liza ! ” said Abel, “ don’t heap such coals 
on my head I ” 

“ And now I have come to share all your troubles,” 
she went on, cheerfully. “ And, in the first place, tell 
me all about them.” 

Abel’s forehead gloomed. He thought of the guilty 
woman, cowering in the bedclothes in the chamber, 
waiting to hear her doom from him. He remembered 
her anguish and her prayers, and knew that he held her 
destiny in his hands. It was hard to abandon her to 
the shame her folly had earned. It was easier to bear 
himself the obloquy, and, if needful, suffer punishment 
in her stead; for she was still his wife, — the mother of 
his boy. He could not forget that; and what would 
life be worth to him after giving her up to ignominy ? 
Here was Eliza. She might more than recompense him 
for the loss of a selfish, shallow hearted wife. But 


Home once More, 1S7 

lie chased instantly the unworthy thought from his 
mind. 

“Sister,” he said solemnly, lifting his head, after a 
moment’s heavy thought, — and there was an ague in 
his voice as he spoke, — “I shall tell you all I can hon- 
orably tell you, be sure; for I must have your sympathy 
and trust. But some things may be left long untold, 
and you must not question me concerning them. In 
due time, now or hereafter, you shall know all. I am 
innocent, of course; though Mrs. Apjohn’s malice has a 
better foundation than I at first thought.” 

“Enough,” said Eliza; “I trust you wholly, and I 
ought to be above idle curiosity. But here is Melissa. 
What did mother say ? ” 

“ She couldn’t believe me when I fust told her you’d 
come,” replied Miss Jones. “Then she chirked right 
up as pleased ! I had to stop and put clean piller-cases 
on the bed, though, ’fore she’d let me bring you in to 
see her; for she says you’re dreadful petic’lar, and I 
guess she don’t want you to know things ain’t kep’ look- 
in’ quite so scrumptious around as they used to be. 
But you’ll find it out fast enough,” added the simple- 
minded girl; “ and you’ll find ’tain’t all my fault, 
neither.” 

While she was speaking, Eliza delivered Ebby to 
Abel, and prepared to accompany her. Melissa went 
as far as the old lady’s door; saw her rise up in bed to 
meet the long-lost daughter of her adoption; heard the 
stifled sobs and kisses as they fell into each other’s 


i88 


Neighbor's Wives, 


arms; then drew back from the closed door, rubbing 
her red eyes redder still with sympathy. 

Like her let us also retire, and leave these two, re- 
united, to their sacred privacy. The evening is now 
advanced. Eliza makes up a bed in her mother’s room, 
resolved to lie there that night and the nights thereafter, 
so long as her faithful attendance can be of comfort to 
the invalid. And there, when the deep, still hours 
come, blissful rest steals upon her, and she sleeps when 
she would watch. And the invalid becomes herself the 
watcher, too happy in the wanderer’s return to close 
her eyes that night. And the night passes over them 
and over all, — aged watcher, youthful dreamer; Abel 
in the chamber apart, at peace, with Ebby at his side; 
and Faustina, moaning in her sleep with evil dreams, or 
starting awake by fits, to find herself alone, and bite hex 
pillow with convulsive teeth until she sleeps again. 


Another Sunday, 


189 


XXIT 

ANOTHER SUNDAY. 

Another Sunday morning, — how pure and trancnil 
after the fever of the week ! The farm- wagon is housed, 
and the unyoked oxen graze in the autumn pastures. 
The mill is silent; the cool, damp cavern under it echo- 
ing only to the plash of the water dripping over the 
great wheel. The carpenter’s chest is locked, the shop 
closed and solitary; only mice in the shavings rustling, 
and flies buzzing in the dust and cobwebs of the sunny 
windows. Even the active young jackplane, resting on 
the work-bench, has a serious, composed look, — as it 
were, an air of keeping the Sabbath. 

And the cooper’s tools lie idle. And the freshly- 
shaped staves, standing in the corners, seem to be look- 
ing at each other, and wondering at the vicissitudes of 
life; feeling, no doubt, that they have been dreadfully 
shaved. While the rows of sober, adult barrels and little 
juvenile firkins, all in their new, clean dresses, are hold- 
ing a solemn Quaker-meeting, so very life-like, you 
would say yonder pretty matron in hoops is just going 
to open her head and say something. 

J Lidging from the aspect of the cooper this fine morn- 


190 


Neighbors' Wives. 


ing, you would furthermore infer that the said solenjnity 
will never be interrupted by him, that it will be always 
Sunday henceforth in his shop, and Quaker-meeting 
among the casks. He himself, he thinks, is through with 
church-going, and listening to psalms and sermons for- 
ever. No more shall he sit piously in his pew, while the 
words from the pulpit fall and feed him, or the singing 
of the sweet-voiced choir breaks silvery over his soul. 
Never again shall he hold up his head, unshamed in the 
congregation. Even the ringing of the church-bells, in 
the holy calm, is intolerable to him; their swelling, sono- 
rous roar, their dying moan and murmur, awakening in 
his breast such vibrant memories, vague terrors, and 
sick regrets. 

Astride his chair he sits, his head bowed upon the 
back of it, a pitiable object. Not even Mrs. Aj^john’s 
robust bosom can resist a thrill of pity as she looks at 
him. Or does the ringing of the church-bells disturb 
her also ? She has resolutely put on her black silk, de- 
claring that she is going to meeting, anyway; that she 
can hold up her head in church or out of church. But, 
the hour arrived, her heart succumbs. Can she bear 
the ordeal of jeers and significant glances ? What if she 
should find a tomato in her pew ? Will there not be 
some text read at her from the Scriptures, or some appli- 
cation to her trespass made in the sermon ? She has 
put on her bonnet with indecision; her fingers hesitate 
with the ribbons. 

“ Sick, J ohn ? ” she says, turning partly round, as she 
stands before the glass. 


Another Sunday, 


191 

“I ain’t well, Prudy; I ain’t well; not ovei n above,” 
answers melancholy John, under his elbow. 

Now, Prudence flatters herself that she is not afraid 
to face the nation. But John is poorly; John is down- 
hearted; maybe John will resort again to his sanguinary 
handkerchief. Ought she, as a faithful wife, to leave him 
alone ? she asks herself, glancing from his submissive 
neck to the kitchen pole. 

“ I declare, John,” she says, out of one corner of her 
mouth, — pins in the other corner, — “I won’t go to 
meetin’, after all 1 You’re sick; and I’ll stay to hum 
and nu’s’ ye.” 

“ Never mind me; nevermind me,” says Cooper John. 
“ Go if ye can, and take the good on’t. To be sure, to 
be sure.” 

These were the only words he spoke, unti/ Prudence 
had taken off her black silk, put on her every day gown 
again, and sat down in the rocking-chair, with the Bible 
on her lap. 

“ Come, John ! le’s be sociable, and have a sort of 
coinf ’table Sunday to hum. What ye thmkin’ about?” 
asks Prudence. 

“ What a week can bring forth ! — the difference 
’twixt this Sunday and last, Prudy I ” And remember- 
ing how then, in his sleek Sunday clothes, he walked to 
church, a respected cooper, and the honest husband of 
an honest wife; no neighbors incensed against them, 
no finger of scorn pointed at them; the sight of a blush- 
ing tomato no more to him than the aspect of you* chaste 


192 Neigh h ors^ Wives . 

cucumber or innocent pippin; ever 3 ^body friendly to him, 
the deacons recognizing him, the selectmen often deign- 
ing to shake hands with him, even the minister saying, 
kindly, “Good-morning, Mr. Apjohn ! ” or, “I hope 
you are well this blessed morning, brother Apjohn ! ” 
— remembering such things were one brief week ago, 
and can never be again, he takes his little bald head in 
his two hands, and wrings it, as if he would force tears 
of blood out of that juiceless turnip. 

“ Highty-tighty, John ! ” says Prudence; “ don’t be so 
foolish 1 ” 

“ It won’t be Mr. Apjohn any more ! ” laments the 
cooper. “ But it’ll be Old Apjohn; or Tomato Apjohni"* 

“ Never mind, John I ” says Prudence the inexorable. 
“We’ll spite ’em to our heart’s content I Le’s think 
o’ that, and take comfort.” 

“ Spite ’em ? — Comfort ? ” repeats the cooper. “ No, 
no, no ! ” And the tolling bell says “No — no — no I ” 
with slow and mournful roar. And the angels whisper 
in their hearts, “ No, no, no I ” But though the sorrow- 
ful tongue of her husband, and the iron tongue of the 
bell, and angels’ sweetly persuasive lips, should all unite 
to warn or to entreat, they could not turn Prudence 
from her revenge. 

“ I can’t see a sign of their gittin’ out to meetin’,” she 
observes, looking out of the window towards Abel’s 
house. “No wonder they don’t go ! They’re deeper ’n 
the mud’n we be’n the mire, enough sight; we’ve got 
that to console us ! Why, John, what’s a few tomatuses 


Another Sunday. 


193 


^twixt neighbors ? only think on’t ! But breaking into 
a house, and into a chist, and stealin’ fifty dollars in 
money, — that’s a State’s-prison job, John ! Oh, we’ll 
give folks somethin’ to talk about, that’ll make ’em for- 
git the tomatuses, John ! ” And with a gleam of ma- 
licious joy, she sits down again, with the Bible on her 
lap. 

“ Bead a chapter, Prudy,” says the cooper. 

And she reads, — 

“ But why dost thou judge thy brother ? or why dost 
thou set at naught thy brother ? for we shall all stand 
before the judgment-seat of Christ.” 

“ That’s it ! to be sure ! ” comments the humble lis- 
tener. “ Prudy, how can we be unforgivin’ to others, 
when we stand so much in need of mercy ourselves ? 
‘ Before the judgment-seat of Christ,’’ Prudy ! remember 
that ! ” 

Prudence turns to read in another place: “Woe 
unto you, when all men shall speak well of you I ” and 
thinks that here is solace, — that here is something that 
will suit her better. But the very next paragraph com- 
mences that sublime and beautiful injunction, “Love 
your enemies, do good to them that hate you, bless them 
that curse you.” 

And she closes the book impatiently. The Bible doea 
not please her to-day. 

In tlie meanwhile very different scenes are passing in 
Abel’s house. Faustina still keeps her bed. But Eliza, 
active, helpful, effusing an atmosphere of cheerfulness 
17 


194 


Neighbors^ Wives. 


around her wherever she moves, more than fills the 
place of the sullen, absent wife. She has quickly learned 
the ways of the altered household; she has the old lady 
once more in her chair, in the cosey kitchen-corner; and 
again she is the sunshine of the house, as in old times. 
Indeed, it seems as if the old times, and the beautiful, 
harmonious order of departed days were now ;restored. 
And, but for Ebby prattling yonder, watching his new 
“ mamma ” with pleased eyes, Abel could almost fancy 
his married life a wild dream. 

“ Oh, this is Sunday I ” he thinks. No such day of 
rest has he known for months. The light of Eliza’s 
countenance is joy to him; the sense of her presence is 
a balm to all his hurts. He looks at his mother’s dear 
old face, freshly washed with dews of gladness and 
gratitude, and shining in the morning brightness of a 
new hope ; he sees Melissa inspired with unwonted 
activity and cleverness ; he observes even the dumb 
inmate, Turk, thumping his susceptible tail against 
every object he passes, in his restless delight at Eliza’s 
coming; he almost forgets the guilty, despairing woman 
in the chamber, and her crime, which he must answer 
for ; and still he says in his soul, “ Oh, this indeed is 
Sunday ! ” 

Again Eliza sat with him and his mother at break- 
fast ; and again she poured the elixir of her own sweet 
spirit into the cups she gave them. And the mufiins, — 
Abel would have known they were of her cooking. 
Taste them wherever he might, he could not have beon 


Another Sunday. 


195 


deceived. They possessed an ingredient which is not 
mentioned in any receipt-book. They had the real 
'Eliza flavor. No such muffins had been eaten in his 
house since she left it; and as for that unmistakable 
flavor, how often had he longed for it, sitting down to 
an ill-furnished table, and turning heart-sick from the 
uninviting edibles ! 

Then, sometimes, in the midst of his thankfulness, 
the recollection of Faustina and of her crime crosses 
his spirit like an eclipse; and all the future is darkened. 

Then, too, the aching thought of what might have 
been, had Eliza never gone and Faustina never come, 
pierces him. And the thought of what may be still, if 
he will but decide to sacrifice his wife, agitates him like 
a temptation. 

For he knows now, with certainty, that all hope of 
happiness with her is shattered ; that, under the thin 
veneering of her beauty, there is no true grain of 
character; that what the deep heart of man forevei 
Lungers for, and can find only in the deep heart of 
woman, — what he has sought so ardently and long in 
her, and sought always in vain, — can never be his so 
long as she is his ; and that to be her husband now, in 
aught but the name and outward form, will be a sin 
against his own divine instinct of marriage. 

And, with equal certainty, he knows that, in this 
woman whom he once called sister, and loved so calmly 
and purely and habitually, under the illusion of that 
name, that he never guessed the strength and sacredness 


196 Neighbors^ Wives. 

of the tie between them, there exists a sc>ul richly fur- 
nished with all the grace and goodness and sympathy 
which he has longed for in a wife, but which he did not 
find when he set the vanity of his eyes to choose for him. 

It avails not for Abel to put away these thoughts. 
They return : when the small, sprightly, electric form 
moves before him, or he catches the flash of her sunny 
glances; when his ears drink the soft music of' her con- 
versation or laughter; when once more, as in bygone 
years, in the mild Sunday afternoon, they read together, 
aloud, in the consolatory Gospels, or the mighty poem 
of Job; when their voices blend in singing again the 
old beloved tunes, and their spirits blend also in a more 
subtile and delicious harmony; continually the wishes, 
the regrets, the passionate yearnings return, with their 
honey and their stings. 

It is too much. Oh that the simple strain of an old 
tune, flinging out its spiral coil, should have power to 
lasso the will and master it ! that the near rustle of a 
robe should convulse a strong man’s aflections ! that 
the mere sight of an industrious little hand setting the 
supper-table should thrill the heart to tears ! 

After supper, Abel went out to walk, to calm his 
emotions, to cool his spirit in the bath of the evening 
air, — to read the riddle of his life, if possible, in the 
light of the sunset and the stars. And as he walked, 
thinking of the two women, — her he loved, and her he 
loathed, — doubting, hoping, in anguish and humility; 
he remembered the prayer of Jesus, and a part of it, 


Another Sunday, 197 

which had always been dark, suddenly became clear 
And he prayed within himself, — 

“ O Father in Heaven I hallowed be thy name, which 
is Love 1 

“ O Love I lead us not into temptation ! ” 

This day it had been revealed to him that, by the deep- 
er law of marriage, he and Eliza belonged to each other, 
— and that she, with her woman’s nature, supreme in 
matters of the heart, had recognized the truth, long since, 
and been moved by it when he deemed her conduct so 
strange and unpardonable. If he had hitherto repented 
of his unkindness to her, how did he now gnash his teeth 
at the recollection of his own blindness and madness I 
At sunset he stood upon a hill, and overlooked a 
landscape which had all his life been familiar to him; — 
the same earth, the same sky, the spectacle of the sun- 
down. But now, for the first time, by some chance, 
bending his head, he discovered a phenomenon, known to 
every shrewd lover of nature. His eyes inverted, look- 
ing backwards under his shoulder, saw the world upside- 
down. The unusual order in which the rays of color im- 
pinged the nerve of vision exhibited them with surpris- 
ing distinctness and delicacy. The green valley, the 
glimmering stream, the tints of early autumn on hillside 
and cliff, the light on the village roofs far and near, the 
blue suffused horizon, the glittering sun beyond, were 
transfigured with magical loveliness. In the cloudless 
purity of the sky, which had scarcely attracted his atten- 
tion before, burned the most exquisitely beautiful belts 
7 * 


198 


Neighbors' Wives, 


•)f color, more splendid than any rainbow. And Abe4 
said, “ How blind we are to the glories that are always 
before our eyes I Eliza was with me every day. I was 
as ignorant of her dearness and worth as I have always 
been of the beauty of the world until now. Oh, why 
have I discovered the charms of the earth and sky just 
as I am threatened with being shut up from the sight of 
them in the walls of a prison ? And why have I never 
felt her charms until now I look at them through the 
grated windows of wedlock ? ” 

So saying, or rather thinking, or rather feeling, — for 
his emotions did not shape themselves in words, — he 
turned to descend the hill. 

“ Why should I suffer in that wretched woman’s 
place ? ” he repeatedly asked himself, in the sweating 
agony of his heart. “ I can force her to write a full confes- 
sion. That will exculpate me. That may lead to — O my 
God I let me not sin in this I Let my duty be made 
plain ! ” 

He walked far. He returned by the common, and 
stood struggling with himself in sight of his house. 
It was now moonlight; and the stars twinkled in their 
eternal spheres. He could see the windows, behind 
which his wife lay writhing with terror and shame. He 
could see the door of his house, once more rendered dear 
to him by her, the very thought of whom could agitate 
and swell his breast. 

“ I will talk with Eliza, — I will tell her everything, — 
and she shall tell me what to do.” 


Abel and Eliza, 


199 


XXIIL 

ABEL A^TD ELIZA. 

Abel walked on, strong in his new resolution, and was 
near his own door, when it opened, and some one came 
out. It was Eliza with her bonnet on. She was hurry- 
ing past him, when he spoke. 

“ Abel ? ” she said, with a start, not glad to meet him 
then. 

“ Where are you going ? ” 

“Not far; a little walk.” 

“ Let me go with you ? ” 

“ Certainly, — if you wish to.” 

Yet she spoke with a hesitation and reserve which 
dampened his ardor. 

“You are low-spirited?” she asked, as they walked 
by the common. 

“ Do you wonder that I am ? ” said Abel. 

“No; it is natural; but all will come out right, Abel, 
I am sure. We must all go thi*ough the wilderness 
some time, if we would see the bright land beyond.” 

“You have been through ? ” asked Abel, falteringly. 

“ I have,” she answered in a low, very tender voice. 
“ Thank Heaven ! ” 


200 


Neighbors' Wives, 


“ And you are happy ? ” 

“ I am happy, Abel.” 

He was startled. That she could be happy, and at 
peace, while before him was tempestuous darkness, gave 
him a pang. 

“Your happiness is not my happiness,” he said de- 
spondingly. 

“But I can reach out a hand to help you, dear 
brother ! ” And she pressed the hand that was laid 
upon hers. 

That was meagre comfort. Beach out to him ? Only 
that ? 

“ Eliza, I am miserable ! My married life — you may 
as well be told — is a wretched failure ! ” 

“I know it; I have known it all along,” she answered. 

“Yes; and you foresaw it. And you warned me,” 
groaned Abel. 

“ Did I ? ” There was a slight tremor in her sweet, 
clear voice. “Well, it was better, I suppose, that you 
should follow your own choice.” 

“ When it was leading me into the pit ! ” he exclaimed. 

“We are sometimes permitted to go very, very wrong, 
for the benefit the experience will bring with it, Abel.” 

“But a life-long experience of disappointment and 
misery I ” 

“There is something that will sanctify and swee^^^en 
all that to you,” said Eliza. 

“ What is it, for God’s sake ? ” 

“ Duty ! Never swerve aside from that.” 


Abel and Eliza. 


201 


“ But what is my duty ? ” demanded Abel, with a 
bitter outburst. “What is the duty of a man, who 
wakes from a dream of folly, to find himself bound for 
all time to a woman who proves unworthy of his trust 
and repugnant to his whole nature ? ” 

“ It is the question of questions I ” said Eliza, after a 
deep pause. 

“ Which you cannot answer,” cried Abel, “ any more 
than I can.” 

“Ho; nor as well. What your private relations to 
her shall be,” said Ehza, timidly, “ must be left entirely 
to your own conscience. But you have assumed out- 
ward obligations towards her,” she added, in a firm, un- 
hesitating, spiritually clear tone of voice; “you have 
taken her from her father’s house, and you have vowed 
to cherish her through evil report and through good 
report. You must never forget that; you must remem- 
ber how we all stand in need of charity and forbearance, 
and sufier long and be kind. Do not shrink from suf- 
fering. In the end it will be gain to you. I know.” 

She spoke with generous sympathy, yet out of the 
depths of a spirit whose tranquillity and firm faith 
seemed to remove her farther and farther from his 
troubled sphere. For she perceived his fever and weak- 
ness; perhaps, also, she knew his temptation; and had 
fortified herself. To the strength which had been born 
to her out of trial and endurance, had been added a 
power beyond herself for this hour and this meeting. 
So that Abel might well exclaim, — 


202 


Neighbors^ Wives, 


“ You seem nearer to the cold stars up then than to 
me. You talk like an angel. It is all beautiful and 
true, what you say; but I’d rather you’d be a woman 
now. You do not know all, Eliza ! ” — Emotions crowd- 
ed his voice. — “I have something terrible to tell you.” 

They were passing near the post-office. 

“ Wait a minute,” she said; “ then I wiU hear you.” 

She stepped aside to drop a letter in the box, then 
rejoined him. 

“ A letter ! ” murmured Abel. A jealous fear over- 
shadowed him. He took her hands; he stood looking 
down at her pale face in the moonlight for a minute, 
without a word. 

“ Y ou were going to tell me something,” she said. 

“ You are going to teU me something I Eliza, who 
have you been writing to ? ” 

“ To a friend. Why do you ask ? ” 

“ A dear friend ? ” 

“ A very dear friend.” And the pale face met his 
gaze with a frank smile in the moonlight. 

“ A man, Eliza ? ” 

“ A man, Abel. Why not ? ” 

He gave her wrist a convulsive pressure, then dropped 
it, and, with a tremendous sigh, drew back from her, 
almost staggering. She was alarmed. She took his 
hand. 

“ What is the matter, Abel ? ” 

“It is well; it is well I Come, Eliza; we will go 
home now.” 


Abel and Eliza » 


203 

She leaned upon his arm, too full of love and pity and 
regret for the mockery of words. 

“ I am glad you have found friends in your absence,” 
he said, after a brief silence. 

“ I have found some very excellent friends,” she an- 
swered. 

“You did not wish me to know you had a letter to 
mail. I understand now.” 

“ I think it is better you should know, Abel.” 

This was not the reply he hoped for. Every minute 
and every word seemed to sharpen the fangs that 
gnawed his heart. He could not endure suspense. 

“ When are you to be married ? ” he demanded, ab- 
ruptly. 

“ I don’t know. Not while I feel that I am needed 
here,” came the low, unfaltering response. 

“ I beg of you,” said Abel, “ don’t let your regard for 
us interfere with your happiness,” — with something of 
his irrepressible despair writhing in his voice. 

“Duty first and always, and happiness cannot fail,” 
said Eliza. 

“ I hope he is worthy of you,” he added. 

“ I wish,” she replied, “ that I was half as worthy of 
him.” 

They passed on in silence; his hot thoughts almost 
stifiing him. 

“ But you were to tell me something,” she reminded 
him. 

“ It is this,” said Abel. “ I thank you from the bot- 


204 Neighbors' Wives, 

tom of my soul for your advice to me. I shall do my 
duty.” 

“ I am sure you will, Abel ! ” 

“Yes, — thanks to you. Whatever happens, I can suf- 
fer. God grant your married life may be happier than 
mine has been 1 ” 

Eliza’s serenity was fast forsaking her. She loved Abel 
too well, she sympathized with his sorrow too much, to 
answer now with calm words of counsel. Misgivings, 
also, it may be, with regard to her own future and duty, 
disquieted her. 

What right had she, loving this man, to be happy in 
another’s arms ? Had she sinned, when, lonely and cold 
and famished, she accepted the solace of a good man’s 
affection ? Because one hope had perished, should she 
go through God’s bright universe refusing to be com- 
forted ? Because Abel was married, should she forever 
obstinately shun the high destiny of woman, — wifehood 
and motherhood ? 

These were no new questions. Long, in anguish and 
supplication, she had wrestled with the great problem. 
Many a woman and many a man has wrestled with it 
the same, — wrestles with it still. Each must solve it for 
himself or herself It is good to live true to one’s own 
heart ; sacrificing all things else to that ; through ab- 
sence, and lapse of time, and death of hope. And to 
renounce the impossible, accepting cheerfully the best 
that is given, is also good. Consider it well ; let the 
soul choose ; and who shall condemn ? 


Abel a7id Eliza. 


2C5 


Eliza had chosen. Yes, and even now she felt that she 
had ch6sen wisely. Excepting only Abel, this other, of 
all men, stood highest in her regard. She had acquainted 
him with all the doubts of her heart ; nor had she left 
him to enter this ordeal of danger without his consent 
and blessing. 

And in all things, so noble did he appear to her, so 
dear tad he rendered himself by his generosity and truth, 
that J^he knew she could make him a true and happy 
wife. Yet once more, to-night by Abel’s side, stirred by 
his Ic v^e and grief, the old perturbations arise. Only 
solitude and prayer can put them again at rest. She 
was glad that the gate was near, and that Abel did not 
olfer go in with her. 

“ I shall walk a little further,” he said. “ Comfort 
mother till I come.” 

And the gate closed between them with a harsh sound. 
And both felt that another gate shut also between them ; 
the g^te whose hinges are providence, and whose latch is 
fate. 

“ idiot ! idiot ! ” muttered Abel, with angry and bit- 
ter «corn of himself. “ I merit what I have. I will 
take with calmness what is still to come. Tongue, hold 
your peace ! Misery, do your worst ! Misfortunes, 
rain, hail, pour I ” 

lie walked in the placid and smiling moonlight. And 
something of the silence and vastness and chasteness 
of the night glided into him. His thoughts grew great 
and solemn and tender. To go to prison for another’s 
18 


2o6 Neighbors* Wives, 

sake did not seem much to him then. To die for an- 
other’s sake did not seem so hitter. He murmured 
Eliza’s name with a prayer for her happiness. He 
thought of Faustina with gentleness and compassion. 
He remembered how near his mother’s feet were to the 
still portals of eternity, and smiled. Only when he 
thought of his child he wept. 

For his child’s sake he would willingly humble him- 
self; and, seeing a light in the cooper’s house, he be- 
thought him to go in, and try if it were possible to 
conciliate the enemy. 


The Night, 


207 


XXIV. 

THE NIGHT. 

The Apjohns were just going to bed; and Cooper 
John came to the door, with a candle, in his shirt and 
trousers. He looked aghast at Abel. 

“ Come in: to be sure, to be sure 1 ” he said. “ Prudy I 
Prudy ! ” 

Prudy came out of the bedroom, presently, in her 
petticoat, with a shawl over her shoulders, nodding sar- 
castically. 

“ How do you do, Mr. Dane ? ” she carelessly in- 
quired, arranging a corner of the shawl the better to 
cover her portliness. “John Apjohn,” — turning to the 
shivering cooper, — “ go to bed ! ” 

Meekly snuffing, J ohn set the candle on the table, and 
withdrew. 

“ Is it peace ? ” said Abel, holding out his hand. 

“ Peace, Abel Dane ? I should say peace ! ” retorted 
the grim housewife, scornfully laughing. “ I wonder 
the word don’t blister your mouth I Peace, after sech 
treatment as I have had from you and your upstart 
wife ! I say for’t ! ” 

“ Prudy,” whispered the cooper, putting his head out 
of the bedroom. 


2o8 


Neighbors' Wives, 


“ What now ? ” she demanded, sharply. 

“ Let it be peace, Prudy; let it be peace,” said John. 

“ Shet up ! ” ejaculated Prudence. 

And the imploring visage was slowly withdrawn, and 
the door softly closed again. 

•‘When you were in my garden a week ago,” said 
Abei, “ did I look at you with scorn ? Did I magnify 
your offence ? Did I set myself up as your judge, and 
make haste to pronounce sentence ? ” 

“Ko, no; to be sure! Remember that, Prudy!” 
answered a ghostly voice in the direction of the bed- 
room. 

“ No, to be sure ! ” repeated Prudence, with a vin- 
dictive toss. “ He didn’t da’s to, to my face. But what 
did he do behind my back ? — the sarpent ! Strung to- 
matuses on to my door ! And that wasn’t enough, but 
you must come and rob us of our hard-earned money, 
— thinkin’ we wouldn’t da’s to make a fuss about it, I 
s’pose. But you’ll see, — you’ll see, Abel Dane ! Talk 
of peace ! Ha ! ha ! ” 

Abel commenced, protesting his innocence of the 
string of “ tomatuses.” 

“Tut, tut,” said Mrs. Apjohn; “ I s’pose you’ll deny 
you stole the money next ! ” 

Once more the meek, bald pate of the cooper was 
pushed into the room. 

“ Hear what the man has got to say, Prudy dear, — 
do !” 


“ John Apjohn ! ” 


The Night, 


20C 


“ What, Prudy ?” 

“ I said go to bed.” 

“ Yes, Prudy ! ” (Exit bald head.) 

My worthy woman,” then said Abel, seating him- 
self, and speaking candidly and earnestly, “ I have come 
to talk with you as neighbors should talk, and I beg of 
you to hear me with patience and without prejudice.” 

“ Wal, sir,” — Prudence occupied the wood-box for a 
seat, and pulled her shawl together and looked crank, — 
“ I hear you, sir ! ” 

“ I see it is useless for me to deny the charge of in- 
sulting you with tomato-vines, and I have no intention 
of setting up a claim to the fifty dollars, which, I pre- 
sume, belongs rightfully to you; but I here solemnly 
protest that I never meant to rob you, or injure your 
reputation, or wound your feelings. I call Heaven to 
be my witness ! ” 

Again the bedroom-door opened, and again the coop- 
er’s head appeared, this time with a night-cap on. 

“ Prudy,” he said, in an awe-struck voice, “ he calls 
Heaven to witness ! ” 

“ He didn’t call you /” retorted the Juno of this little 
Olympus, and the night-capped Jupiter disappeared 
again. 

“ Purthermore,” said Abel, “ I pledge you my honor 
that whatever reparation can be made for the injuries 
you complain of, shall be made. And I tell you I am 
sincerely sorry for all that has happened; and for what- 
ever I have done amiss I humbly ask your pardon.” 

18 * 


210 


ISfeighbors’ Wives, 


“ Wal, sir?” 

“Well, Mrs. Apjohn, I believe it depends upon you 
whether this charge against me shall be prosecuted. If 
we can come to an understanding, and you withdraw 
your complaint, there will not be much difficulty in 
avoiding an indictment. Question your own conscience 
before you answer,” said Abel, foreboding evil from the 
grimace and toss with which she prepared to reply; 
“and consider whether you can afford to be unmerciful; 
remembering that what mercy we show shall be shown 
to us.” 

Prudence pulled her shawl together nervously and 
compressed her lips, and elevated her chin and said, — 

“ Wal, Abel Dane, you’ve had your say; now hear me. 
Nobody can accuse me of havin’ an Injin temper; and 
you can’t say’t ever in all my life I spoke of you one mis- 
beholden word. You was always as decent a kind of a 
man till you got married, as ever I knowed ; and you 
would be now, if it wa’n’t for that pesky proud wife of 
your’n, that I’m bound to come up with some way, and 
I only wish it was her that took the money, and not you ! 
She’s made a fool of ye, and made a proud, desaitful, 
mean, underhanded scamp of you that was a perty honest 
and tolerable respectable neighbor afore. I feel bad for 
you, Abel Dane; and, as I said, I only wish it was her 
that I could prove took the money; then if she wouldn’t 
smart for’t, I miss my guess.” 

Abel sighed ; for now he saw how vain it would be to 
shift the responsibility of the theft from himself to his 


The Night. 


211 


wife, in tlie hope that their enemy would be more merci- 
ful to her than to him. 

The night-capped head was at the bedr( om door again; 
but it was only moved with a slow and dismal shake, in 
silence. 

“You are a hard-hearted woman,” said Abel, sadly 
smilihg, as he rose to go. 

“ Mabby I be I I can’t help it I Human natur’ is hu- 
man natur’ ! ” Prudence grinned, put her hand on her 
knee for a support, and got up from the wood-box. “ I 
tell ye, I never laid up anything ag’in you, Abel; and if 
it wa’n’t for that stuck-up critter, your wife, we never’d 
quarrel ; though I don’t know but you’re ’bout as bad as 
she is now. There! ” — holding her shawl together with 
one hand, and taking up the candle with the other, — 
“ You’ve had your say, and I’ve had my say, and now 
good-night.” 

“ One word more. Kemember I have a mother and a 
child.” The emotion in Abel’s voice would have shaken 
Prudence, if it had been possible to shake her. But she 
only compressed her lips as before and said, — 

“I’ve thought of them; I’ve thought it all over; and 
I’ve said all I’ve got to say.” 

The cooper, at these words, retreated, and crept in 
between the sheets with a groan. 

“Very well,” answered Abel, sternly and impres- 
sively. “ I have done. I leave you to your conscience 
and your Maker.” 

“ I guess my conscience and my Maker will use me 


212 


Neighbors' Wives, 


perty well, sir I ” And, with sarcastic courtesy, Mrs. 
Apjohn lighted him from the door with the candle. 
“Remember me to your wife,” she added; “and tell 
her, if you please, what I say.” 

Eliza had retired with the old lady to her room, 
when Abel returned home. He found the kitchen for- 
saken, silent, and lighted only by the pale shimmer of 
the moon. He entered the sitting-room ; that, too, was 
forsaken, silent, and lighted only by the pale shimmer 
of the moon. There was something in the aspect of his 
house that struck like desolation to his soul. 

Half an hour later, he opened gently the door of 
Faustina’s chamber, and stood at the threshold. There 
he stood, dark and stern, for a minute or two, and looked 
in. By the bedside sat Melissa, with Ebby crying in 
her arms. In the bed, covered completely, even to the 
crown of her head, round which the bedclothes were 
twisted in a disordered heap, lay the boy’s mother. 

“ O papa ! ” said Ebby, stretching up his little arms, 
in his night-gown. 

Melissa started, and gave a frightened look at her 
master. 

“ Put that child to bed ! ” said Abel. 

“ Oh, I did, sir ! ” Melissa hastened to explain. “ I 
put him to bed all of an hour’n’a’f ago.” 

“ Then what is he here for ? ” 

“She wanted him; she had me take him up, and 
bring him to her, jest so’s’t she could see him, she said; 
her own baby, so I ” 


The lYig'ht, 213 

Abel was touched; as no doubt Faustina meant he 
should be, when he should learn what the yearning, ma- 
ternal heart of her had prompted. 

. “ Why don’t she look at him, then ? What was the 
child crying for ? ” she heard his deep voice demand. 

“ O sir ! mabby you think she don’t keer for her 
baby; but she dooes ! ” — This was a part of the lesson 
Faustina had taught Melissa, and she repeated it very 
pathetically. — “And when she wanted to have him in 
bed with her, and he didn’t want to go, she was so 
worked ! her own baby so, you know. And she jest 
kivered up her head, and said, no matter, she would die, 
and he wouldn’t have no mother, not no more; and 
that’s what made him cry.” 

“Me dot new mamma I” Ebby declared, with a sob 
of subsiding grief between the words. 

“ Take him to bed,” said Abel. 

“Tiss, papa ! ” implored the beautiful, aggrieved face, 
through its tears. 

The father gave the wished-for kiss; and Melissa took 
the child away. Then Abel shut the door, and sat down 
by the bed. 

All this time, Faustina had not stirred. Abel gazed 
at the vortex of bedclothes in which she had coiled her- 
self, and sighed, and clenched his teeth hard and waited. 
O memory ! was this his marriage-bed ? 

“Faustina!” No motion; no response. ‘Have you 
anything to say to me ? ” he continued. 

“ 1 won't stir. I’ll make him think I’m dead ! ” 


214 


Neighbors’ Wives, 


thought the wretched being under the clothes. Then 
she almost wished she was dead, and could stand by and 
witness his terror and remorse when he should lift the 
sheet and discover her lifeless form. 

But it was a difficult part to play. Madam was 
smothering; and if she kept covered much longer, she 
felt that, instead of making believe dead, she would be 
dead in earnest. That was not so pleasant to think of, 
notwithstanding the fancied satisfaction of breaking his 
heart with the sight of her lovely corpse. Yanity and 
spite was not quite equal to the occasion; and she waited 
accordingly, with increasing ache and anxiety, for him to 
make another and more moving appeal, which she re- 
solved beforehand not to resist. Why didn’t he speak, and 
afford her the longed-for excuse for uncovering? He was 
in no hurry; he took his time; deliberate was Abel, — a 
good deal more so, she thought, than he would have 
been, had his own head been under the blanket. 

But it was serious business with her, poor thing, de- 
spite all her foolish artifice. Dread and despair were 
with her there under the bedclothes. 

“ If you have nothing to say to me,” Abel resumed, 
at last, “ I have still a few words which I want you to 
listen to. Will you hear me ? ” 

At that, the arms were suddenly disengaged, the 
clothes thrown back, and staring eyes rolled up wildly at 
Abel, from a tragic face still half concealed by rumpled 
pillows and tangled hair. 

“ Is this you, Faustina ?” exclaimed Abel, astonished 
and heartsick at the sight. 


The Night, 


215 


Upon which she glared, and rolled her orbs, and grated 
ner teeth, with superior artistic effect, for a matter of 
twenty seconds, or thereabouts; then dived again, and 
twisted herself up in the bed-covering, with writhings 
and meanings extraordinary. Abel sighed deeply, and 
waited patiently for her to come up to breathe again, 
which she was not slow in doing, then said, — 

“ When you are calm, and in your right mind, I will 
speak.” 

In her right mind ? That gave her a cue to another 
fine piece of acting. What if she could convince him 
she was insane, — overwhelm him with a spectacle of the 
wreck his hard-heartedness had made of her ? She 
would try it, — the inconsiderate and impulsive creature. 
And, indeed, she was not altogether in her right mind, 
but just excited enough with fear and suffering to enter 
well into the part. 

This is what she did: 

She sat up in bed, swept her hair from her face with 
both hands, in a terrific frizzled mass, stared at Abel 
again frightfully, rolled her eyes hideously, grinned 
idiotically, chattered her teeth, and burst into a laugh of 
frenzy. 

She laughed to be heard a mile. She laughed with an 
ease and inspiration for the exercise which astonished 
herself, and without cessation or interval, except to 
catch her breath and recommence. She laughed, in 
short, until she laughed away all self-control, and could 
not stop, for the life of her; having, as you perceive, 


2i6 


Neighbors’ Wives. 


like an actor of first-class imagination, slipped sAviftl}’ 
from the counterfeit into the reality, — just as some- 
times the elder Booth, from playing Kichard, became 
■Richard, and would rant and foam at the mouth, and 
fight the feigning Richmond in right deadly fashion. 

Madam had, in fact, gone off in a genuine fit of hys- 
terics. She laughed till she sobbed, and sobbed , till she 
fell into convulsions, in which she was wrenched and 
rolled, like a body in the breakers of an Atlantic storm, 
and which finally heaved her, breathless and quivering, 
upon the strands of unconsciousness. 

And Abel thought her dead. He stood like one 
stunned, gazing at her with a stony wonder, his lips 
parted, and his hair lifting with horror. Deep, solemn 
gladness, an awful hope, mingled with his fear. 

He looked across the bed at Eliza, for she was there, 
-- all the women in the house having been summoned bj'’ 
the hysteric shrieks. Their eyes met over the insensible 
form. Something like lightning flashed between them, 
— an instant only, — and it passed — forever. 

Faustina was not dead, nor would she die yet for a 
score of years at least. Things do not happen in life as 
they do in romances. ’Tis pity, for now might we bring 
our tale joyfully to a close, would she but revive 
enough to make a free confession, before witnesses, of 
her sins against the Apjohns, murmur her repentance, 
ask to see a clergyman, place Eliza’s hand in Abel’s, 
declare they are for each other, smile contentedly, and 
die at a most convenient season. Then Eliza’s absent 


The Night. 


217 


lover should be opportunely tossed by some iron bull of 
a locomotive, or sent to heaven by an exploding steam- 
boat boiler; leaving, of course, a will in her favor; when 
nothing would remain but for the surviving hero and 
heroine to be married, and enter upon the enjoyment of 
that limpid existence of lymph and honey miscalled 
happiness, which never was on earth, and never will be 
anywhere, probably, except in story-books. 

But this is no fine fiction; no far away Eden of un- 
imaginable beauty this, but a plain little garden-plat, 
where a few common fiowers grow, with many coarse 
plants and weeds, rooted in this homely New England 
soil, and breathing the actual air of the present. And 
we must plod our way patiently to the end of the pro- 
saic path. 

“ Rub her hand ! ” cried Eliza, setting a brisk exam- 
ple, having first dashed water into Faustina’s face. 

“ Stand her on her head and let the blood run back 
into it ag’in ! ” gasped Melissa, seeing the utter pallor of 
her mistress, and having some dim notion that the head 
was a vital part, and that when the blood forsook that, 
then came death. 

“ Bathe her nostrils with the land of Canaan I ” said 
the old lady, meaning the contents of a camphor-bottle 
which she brought. 

“ Brandy ! ” ejaculated Abel, remembering that a few 
drops of his little store of spirits had been saved by his 
timely interruption of a certain convivial entertainment, 
nnt many nights ago. 

19 


2 i 8 Neighbors' Wives, 

All the proposed remedies were tried, except Melis- 
sa’s, who could find no one to favor her novel theory of 
the blood. And the result was that Faustina came 
duly back to consciousness, without having been stood 
upon her head; and Abel had — shall we say the satis- 
faction ? — of seeing her breathe and live again. 

But by this time all his unworthy thoughts ahd wicked 
wishes regarding her had given place to repentance and 
pity. And as soon as he could dispense with assistance, 
he sent the rest away, and remained alone to watch by 
her bedside. 

“ Don’t let me die I ” whispered Faustina, in a weak 
voice of entreaty. 

“ i^o, no,” said Abel, confidently, “ you shall not die.” 

“ I didn’t mean to do it,” she added, whimperingly, in 
terror of what had happened. 

“ I know you didn’t,” he answered, kindly. “ But 
you must keep perfectly quiet now. I shall stay with 
you. No harm will come whilst I am here.” 

She looked up gratefully into his face. 

“Oh, you are good, Abel ! Kiss me, — won’t you?” 

And he touched his lips to her cheek. 

“Oh, we can be happy yet, — can’t we?” she pleaded, 

“ I hope so,” he replied, to quiet her. 

“ Oh, and you will not” — 

He knew what she would say. 

“ No, I will not,” he promised. 

“ Oh, thank you, thank you ! ” and she covered his 
hand with kisses. “ But tell me true, — you will save 
me ? ” 


The Night. 


219 


“ I tell you true, I will. At every risk to myself, I 
will shield you. And I forgive you, too. There; now 
rest.” 

“ Oh ! oh ! oh ! ” she cried, in an ecstasy of gratitude; 
“ you are such a good Abel 1 And we shall be so happy 
once more 1 ” 

But Abel’s brow was dark. 

“You must keep quiet, Faustina,” he said. “If you 
have another such fit, you may die in it.” 

“ And you don’t want me to die ? ” she said, with that 
childlike simplicity which was one of her girlish arts to 
please or touch. 

“ I want you to live,” replied Abel, in a low voice, 
out of a conscience grim as night. 

“ Come to bed then, — won’t jmu, my Abel ? ” 

“Ho; I shall sit np and watch.” 

“ But you won’t leave me ? ” she implored, with self- 
ish and clinging fear. “ And — tell me again you won’t 
expose me, not even to her, — Eliza.” 

“ Hot even to her. The secret is locked here.” Abel’s 
hand pressed his bosom. “ How sleep.” 

And she slept. And he watched by her side all 
night. And the lamp burned out, and the moon set 
upon his watching, and the sun rose. 

And Abel had not said to her what he entered her 
room that night to say; but he kept that also locked in 
his breast. 


220 


Neighhori Wives, 


XXV. 

FIAT JUSTITIA. 

Eliza had written to her friend of the condition oi 
affairs in her old home. He promptly and generously 
replied : — 

“ Your place seems to be there for the present. ... I 
trust all to you; for I know you will do what is right.” 

So Eliza remained. And more, — she placed what 
was left of her savings at Abel’s disposal. 

It was a grief for him to be obliged to accept still 
further pecuniary assistance from her. 

“ It is all one,” she said. “ Even if I did not owe you 
more for years of kindness to me than I can ever hope 
to acknowledge, still I am your sister, you know, and 
all that is mine is yours.” And she forced her earnings 
into his hands. 

“ I can’t ! ” he exclaimed. “ I have no right to your 
poor little purse, Eliza.” 

“ Don’t you go to making fun of it, if it is little,” she 
cheerily replied. “ I am little, and, I tell you, little 
things are not to be despised.” 

“But your marriage,” said Abel. “You must not 
go to your husband penniless.’ 


Fiat yustitia, 22 1 

lie is well-oif, and needs none of my money He 
lias told me so.” 

“I — am glad lie is well off,” faltered Abel, with an 
indescribable contraction of the heart. 

So am I — for his sake. And for ours, too, Abel,” 
she added, frankly. “ For you will need more than I 
have, to pay your lawyers; he mentions that in his 
letter, and offers to lend you.” 

This was rather too much for proud Abel Dane. He 
choked upon it a minute, and wrung her hand. 

“ Thank him for me. I am in your power; I am at 
your mercy, Eliza. Don’t be too kind to me I ” 

So it was settled that Eliza should remain till after 
Abel’s trial. And there was need; for the old lady 
could not endure even the thought of her going; and 
Ebby clung to his new mamma; and Faustina continued 
a prey to depression and nervous caprice; and both the 
management and cheerfulness of the household depended 
upon Eliza. 

And the weeks went swiftly by, and the time of the 
trial arrived. 

It was now December, — a bleak sky overhead, a bar- 
ren, paralyzed world beneath, cold winds blowing, 
streams freezing over, and thin flurries of snow flying 
here and there in the sullen, disheartened weather. 

During two days the trial progressed; two days of 
dread and uncertainty to the innocent accused, and no 
less to the guilty unaccused; two days of general ex- 
citement in the village, and of sharp forensic fencing, 
19 * 


222 


Neighbors^ Wives, 


harassing legal quibbles, flushed and gaping crowds, and 
much unwholesome heat and fetor in the court-room. 

With the feverish details of those days,— how Abel 
bore himself in that shameful public position, confront- 
ing the abusive attorneys, the grave judges, the silent 
twelve, and the open-mouthed multitude; what his 
mother sufiered, awaiting the result which was to de- 
cide not his fate only, but which would also prove a 
word of life or death to her; and how Faustina experi- 
enced a plentiful lack of amusement during those two 
days and nights, — it is needless to weary the reader. 

It was the wish of Abel’s lawyers to have both his 
wife and mother present in the court-room. The age, 
inflrmities, and tears of the elder lady, and the beauty and 
affection of the younger, could not fail, they argued, to 
have a favorable effect on the jury. And Ebby, held up 
in their arms, would have been an important addition to 
the group. But old Mrs. Dane was already worn out 
with anxiety in his behalf, and he knew that it was not 
possible for her to support the fatigue and agitation of 
witnessing his arraignment. And Faustina was kept at 
home by her own miserable terrors and an illness either 
feigned or real. 

With two invalids to care for, Eliza could not easily 
leave, to go and sit by Abel’s side in this hour of doubt 
and peril. But, on the morning of the third day, she felt 
irresistibly impelled ‘to the court-house. The case had 
been given to the jury the night before, and at the open- 
ing of the court it w&s expected they would bring in 


Fia t yustitia . 223 

their verdict. She could not wait for the news to reach 
her; but she must hasten, and be on the spot. 

Accordingly, she left Melissa in charge, and set out on 
foot for the centre of the town. It was full two miles to 
the court-house. She walked all the way, through a 
blinding storm. The snow, which had evidently been 
trying hard to fall during those two days, was now fill- 
ing the air, and whirling in the wintry gale. It drove 
full in Eliza’s face, but little she cared for it, hastening 
on a business the thoughts of which were far more biting 
and bitter. 

The court-room was already crowded on her arrival ; 
and, to her despair, she found herself unable to penetrate 
the steaming throngs that choked the passages. She did 
not know the way to the more private entrance, where, 
as a friend of the accused, she might have gained admis- 
sion and found a seat near his side. So, after all her 
trouble, she could not get in; and, being shorter than 
anybody else, she could see nothing but the elbows and 
backs between which she was soon tightly wedged, the 
gray, unsympathizing ceiling when she looked up, and 
now and then, when she looked down, a glimpse of the 
little close-shaded puddles of trodden and melting snow 
under her feet. 

The court had not yet come in ; and some of the spec- 
tators near her filled the interval with conversation and 
comment. 

‘‘ They say his wife used to be a great belle,” said a 
red-cheeked maiden. 


224 Neighbors^ Wives, 

‘‘ Used to ? ” retorted an affectedly soft masculine voice 

Handsomest woman th’ is in this county, to-day ! ” 

“ I want to know 1 ” whistled a toothless woman’s 
voice. “ You know her, then ? ” 

“Like a book; neighbor o’ mine ! such a figger I and 
eyes, — glorious, you better believe 1 ” 

I I 

“ Is she so very perty, though ? ” asked she of the red 
cheeks, with a slightly envious intonation. 

“Pufficl}" magnificent, I assure ye ! Unlucky day for 
her, though, when she married that sneaking Abel Dane.” 

Moved by an impulse of angry indignation, Eliza 
thrust herself forward, till she could see, over the old 
woman’s hood, the half-shut, simpering eyes and smirking 
mouth of the speaker. She would have been tempted to 
strike that lying mouth, had it not been safe beyond her 
reach. 

“ So you set it down he’s guilty,” whistled the old 
woman. 

“ Guilty I ” echoed the young man. “ Nobody doubts 
that, that knows him as well as I do.” 

“ Oh, ain’t it too bad, aunt ! ” said the girl. “ They 
say his conduct has broke her heart.” 

“Yes,” corroborated the youth. “She’s been sick 
a-bed ever since he was took up, — apprehended, ye 
know,” — hastening to amend his speech with the more 
elegant word that occurred to him. “ Naturally harrow- 
ing to a wife’s feelings, y’ und’stand.” 

“ What a shame, to disgrace his family that way I ” 
said the elderly female. 


Fiat yustitia, 225 

“He might at least have had some regard for his 
wife ! ” chimed in the girl. 

“ Outrageous I ” added the smirking mouth. “ Take a 
beautiful girl away from her home, — creature of ex- 
queezit sensibilities, ye know; genteel folks, fust-rate 
tip-top ’ristocratic s’ciety, ye know; surrounded by the 
lap of luxury ” — 

“ I want to know if she was, poor thing 1 ” exclaimed 
the whistler. 

“ Better believe ! ” And a dingy hand, presenting a 
remarkable contrast of foul nails and showy rings, 
stroked a languid mustache that shaded the smirking 
mouth. “ Outrageous, I say, — get a wife on false pre- 
tences that way, and then go to committing burglary, 
as if expressly a-puppus to overwhelm her with 
obliquity I ” 

“ Tasso Smith 1 ” cried a warning tongue in the 
crowd. 

The proprietor of the rings started, and looked all 
around, with a foolish, apprehensive stare, to see who had 
spoken. It was apparently a female voice, and it seemed 
to come from some mysterious depths in the crowd. 

“ Is’t re’ly burglary now ! ” exclaimed the woman, to 
whose ear the word had an appalling sound. 

“ Burglary in th’ secon’ degree,” the youth answered, 
lowering his voice, and still glancing uneasily around. 
« ’Twould have been burglary in the fust degree, if he’d 
broke into the house — entered the tenement, ye know,” 
he added, in more classic phrase, — “ in the night. Per- 


226 Neighbors' Wives, 

petrating the attempt in the daytime, that makes secon’ 
degree.” 

' “But I thought they couldn’t prove just when he 
broke in ; that’s how I understood it,” observed a rough- 
looking man, whose shaggy coat concealed Eliza. 

“ My friend,” — the youth,^recovering his e(juanimity, 
spoke with a complacent, patronizing air, as if conscious 
of showing off his attainments to an admiring audience, 
— “ My friend, you understood pulfic’ly correct. Nobody 
seen him break in, of course. But it’s mos’ probable he 
done it — consummated the atrocity, ye know,” he trans- 
lated himself, — “ the afternoon the Apjohns was away; 
absent from the dormitory, ye understand.” 

“ Absent from the domicile, you mean! ” sneered a lad 
of fifteen, regarding him with immense disgust. 

“ Same thing,” — and the ringed and grimy paw was 
passed once more across the conceited mouth. “ Clock 
being stopped at certain hour that afternoon, which was 
eftected mos’ probable, when he took out the key of the 
chist or put it back ag’in, — ye know, — seems to indi- 
cate the time of the operation. That’s no consequence, 
though ; they’ll prove a compound larceny, safe enough, 
and that covers the hull ground, y’ und’stand.” 

“His lawyers made a bad job, trying to prove his 
whereabouts all that afternoon,” observed the rough- 
coated stranger. 

“ Pufiic’ly I Ye see, it couldn’t be did. Lucky for 
him a wife ain’t permitted to testify aginst her hus- 
band; if he gets ofi*, — successful acquittal, ye know, — 
it ’ll be on that account.” 


Fiat yustitia. 


227 


“ What, sir I ” whizzed the imperfect dental apparatus 
Df the girl’s aunt, “ye don’t ‘think she know’d of his 
hookin’ the money ? ” 

A peculiarly knowing smile stirred the young man’s 
mustache. “I — ah — apprehend she knowed as much 
about it as anybody. Ye see, she might ’a’ been con- 
victed, in her own mind, of his turbitude, or else she 
wouldn’t been so puflSc’ly succumbed by the dispensa- 
tion ! ” he added, with that characteristic elegance of 
diction which corresponded well with his jewelry, being, 
one may say, the pinchbeck of language displayed on 
the unwashed joints of a vulgar mind. 

“Have you seen the poor creetur’ lately?” inquired 
the toothless one. 

“ No, madam, I hain’t, not very recent.” The youth 
drew himself up pompously. “Ye see, after that — ah 
despisable affair — I cut her husband’s acquaintance. 
A gentleman don’t like to compromise his repetation, y’ 
und’stand, by calling at the house of a thief, if he /las 
got a charming woman for a wife.” 

“ Tasso Smith I ” called once more the mysterious, 
warning voice. 

“ Hello ! ” said Pinchbeck, with a gasp, and a sallow 
grin. “ Who speaks ? Good joke I ha 1 ha ! ” — with a 
forced laugh. 

“ Somebody’s callin’ Tasso Smith ! ” said the woman. 
“ Be you Tasso Smith ? ” 

“That’s my — ah — patternimic,” the young man ac- 
knowledged. 


228 


Neighbors* Wives, 


“Now I wan’to know 1 Huldy Smith’s boy, be ye? 
Huldy Bobbit that was ? Why, me an’ her was school- 
gals together. Didn’t ye never hear her tell of Marshy 
Munson ? ” 

“ Can’t say I ever did ! ” and the young man lifted 
his head superciliously. 

“ Wal, you tell her how you seen Marshy Munson to 
the trial. It’s Munson still, tell her. I’m a livin’ now 
to my brother’s, ’Gustus Munson’s; this’s his darter. 
Your mother married a Smith, I heerd, and had a son 
Tasso; though it’s years sence I’ve seen her; but I hope 
now we shall visit back and forth a little. Dear me ! ” 
— the scraggy-toothed spinster interrupted herself, re- 
garding Tasso admiringly, — “is it possible Huldy Bob- 
bit’s got a boy that tall ! smart and good-lookin’ too; I 
can say that ’thout flatterin’. And to think I should 
meet you here, and And out who you be, and that 
you knowed all about the case ’fore ever it come to 
trial 1 ” 

“I — congratulate myself,” said Tasso, haughtily, 
“ that I was ’bout as well posted as mos’ folks, — gener- 
ality of individuals, y’ und’stand.” 

“ How about the letter he lost in Apjohn’s house ? ” 
inquired Marshy Munson’s niece. “Was that proved 
against him ? ” 

“ It was, miss, supposed to be,” smiled Tasso; “ and it’s 
one of the mos’ overwhelming circumstances in the case.” 

“And the tomatoes, that was hung onto Apjohn’s 
door — wasn’t that mean ? ” 


Fiat yustitia. 229 

“ Mean ? I believe ye ! ” said Tasso, slightly wincing 

“ And of course he done it, you think ? ” 

“Of course? Kobody mean enough to — jjerpetrate 
such a thing, without it’s Abel Dane; as anybody that 
knows him ” — 

“ Tasso Smith, you are a liar I ” 

Tasso turned yellow as his linen, and stopped short as 
if the little hand, instead of the little tongue, of the con- 
cealed speaker, had smitten him. From that moment, he 
became singularly reserved, not venturing to open again 
his mendacious mouth. He now turned his eyes stead- 
fastly towards the bar; and the tittering occasioned by 
his discomfiture had scarcely ceased, when the court 
came in. 

“ Hello, my little girl,” said the rough-coated stranger 
to Eliza, “ you seem bound to git a look.” 

“ Oh, sir I if I only could ? ” 

“ Sho I some friend of your’n, is he ? — this Abel 
Dane ? ” 

“ He — is — a dear friend — my adopted brother I ” 
faltered Eliza, from her anxiously throbbing heart. 

“ Ye don’t say I Here, I’ll make a place for you. 
Give way a little there, you square-shouldered fellers; 
let this young woman pass in; she’s the man’s sister, — 
Abel Dane’s sister ! ” 

Although ashamed of being thus publicly ann junced, 
Eliza was glad of the advantage the kind, rough man 
obtained for her; and in a minute she had passed, she 
scarcely knew how, the close barrier of the crowd, and 
20 


230 


Neighbors' Wives, 


Btood in front of it, with garments sadly disordered by 
the strain and pressure tlue}^ had sustained. 

Before her was a railing as high as her arms, and 
within that a bewildering scene; — the lawyers and priv- 
ileged visitors, whispering, writing, arranging papers, 
or getting their seats, — in the midst of whom her eye 
singled out the well-known side-head of the man she 
sought. He was seated, composedly awaiting the ar- 
rival of the jury with their verdict. He turned to speak 
to a friend by his side, and then she saw his features, 
which were firm, but careworn and haggard. She dared 
not move beyond the rail; but at sight of that dear, suf- 
fering face, she fiew to him in spirit, and flung her arms 
about him, and irrepressible tears ran down her cheeks. 
Order was soon secured in the court, and from a distant 
door an official-looking personage entered, bearing a 
portentous perpendicular staff, and ushering in a file of 
twelve men, who silently took their places upon seats 
reserved for them beyond the bar, at the right-hand of 
the judicial bench. Eliza almost forgot to breathe, and 
leaned faintly upon the rail before her, as she thought 
that the fate of Abel lay in the voice of these twelve 
men, and that in another instant she might hear his 
doom pronounced. 

There was a brief delay, she knew not for what; then 
the question was asked, — had the jury agreed upon their 
verdict. 

They had agreed. Low and ominous came the re- 
sponse from the foreman. 


Fiat yustitia. 


231 


Was the accused at the bar guilty or not guilty ? 

Eliza’s brain reeled. She did not know whether she 
heard the answer, or only a part of it. She looked dizzily 
around. She saw the excited faces ; she heard the whis- 
pered echoes; then all was chaos and darkness about 
her. But she still clung to the rail, and did not 
faint. 

“ Told ye so I ” said Tasso, with a look of malicious 
satisfaction at his new acquaintances. “Yesl” he 
whispered to the tiptoe listeners behind him; “guilty I 
GUILTY I ” 

When Eliza recovered the mastery of her senses, she 
saw, as in a dream, Abel standing up in court, erect and 
pale; and heard some one inquiring if he had anything 
to say why sentence should not be passed upon him. 

Abel’s voice was deep and agitated, as he answered, — 

“ I have nothing to say, but once more to protest 
my innocence, and that is idle now. I believe the jury 
have come honestly to their decision ; but, God knows, 
they have condemned an innocent man.” 

Silence followed these impressive words, broken only 
by a single cry of pain, — a sharp moan wrung from 
Eliza’s very soul. 

Abel, after hesitating a moment, as if there was more 
he would have said, passed his hand across his forehead, 
and sat down. But he was presently required to stand 
up again, and receive the sentence of the court. 

“ Oh, his poor old mother I his poor little baby I ” 
gobbed Eliza, audibly. 


232 


Neighbor^ Wives, 


Abel hid his face with his hand for a minute, strug- 
gling with the emotions that had well-nigh mastered 
him, then stood up, stern and calm. 

In the midst of the hushed and crowded court-room, 

— confronting the jury that had pronounced him guilty, 
and the judge who was to declare his sentence, — the focus 
of a thousand eyes which well might burn his' cheeks to 
coals, or whiten them to ashes, — the one absorbing object 
of pity, or wonder, or gloating satisfaction, to all those 
packed benches, and thronged windows and doorways, 

— a spectacle also, no doubt, to bands of angels, weeping 
over the weakness of human judgments, or tenderly 
smiling with joy at the divine wisdom which underlies 
them, and works through them, and changes the bitter- 
ness of wrong into the sweetness of mercy at last, — 
there, on that wild December day, which blinded the win- 
dows with snow, and darkened all the air with storm, 
Abel Dane, the carpenter, stood up to receive the doom 
of a felon. 

In a slow, monotonous, and dogmatic speech, the 
judge commented on the majesty of the law, which had 
been offended, and the necessity of dealing justice to the 
offender. Next, the enormity of Abel’s crime against 
society was duly made clear to him. He was also r( - 
minded of the obligation he was under to feel grateful 
for the enlightened process of law by which he had been 
convicted, and for the patience and impartiality with 
which his case had been heard. It now remained to de- 
termine the punishment, which should be at once a just 


Fiat Justitia. 


233 


retribution for his olfence, and serve as a solemn warn- 
ing to other wrong-doers. 

Then, in the same unmoved, formal, droning tone of 
voice, the court proceeded to discharge its heavy re- 
sponsibility, by pronouncing judgment. 

This was the judgment : 

To serve a term of five years, at hard labor, m 

THE STATE PRISON. 

This was the doom of Abel Dane. 

It smote the appalled heart of Eliza. Five years I 
It seemed to her that the heavens had fallen, and justice 
had not been done. 

Abel bowed his head, and sat down, and the sentence 
was irrevocably recorded against his name. He was 
committed to the charge of the sherilf, to be taken from 
the court to the jail, and thence to be conveyed to the 
place of his long, weary, ignominious confinement. 

He was marched away by the officers. The distant door 
opened before him and closed again behind him. It was 
done. And Eliza, forced into something like calmness by 
the very intensity of her despair, or stunned by the awful- 
ness of the stroke, or held by a ghastly unbelief, looked 
about her, — saw the soulless visage of the judge still 
sitting there; the misty sea of faces around; the windows 
streaming, as it were, with tears; the vast, dim, empty 
space under the dome, but nowhere Abel; receiving, in 
that instant of time, upon the tablet of her brain, a picture 
of blurred desolation, of sickening unreality, to haunt her 
days thenceforward, and to wake her by night from har- 
rowing dreams. 20 * 


234 


Neighbors' Wives. 


She was roused from that momentary palsy of the 
soul, by the audience breaking up; — for the show was 
over, the tragedy ended; the strained chord of excited 
interest had snapped; and the next case on the docket 
was too tame to excite the public appetite after such a 
highly seasoned entertainment as had just been enjoyed. 

The jury went out and another came in. And'the court 
coldly turned to the next case. And the lawyers scrib- 
bled and quibbled. And the darkening storm whirled 
and whistled without. And the affairs of the great 
world went on, and there was joy, and there was laugh- 
ter, just the same now as when Abel Dane, the convict, 
was a free and happ3" man. 


Through Prison Bars, 


235 


XXYL 

THROTJGH PRISOIT-BARS. 

But now the heavy doors of the jail were clanging 
behind him, and the keys turning in the locks. He 
was no longer of the world. 

Henceforth solitude, hopeless toil, years of corrod- 
ing misery, which seemed a lifetime to look forward 
to, and years of reflected infamy afterwards, if he was 
so unfortunate as to live to be old, — a despised and 
broken-spirited old age; such was the dismal vista of 
the future. 

There was no escape now. The cold walls of the jail, 
the suppressed, sad voice and compassionating look of 
the sheriff, as he took leave of him, the portentous click 
and jingle of the retiring keys, the grated windows, and 
the wild, white-maned storm plunging by outside, as 
if to mock him with the terrors and beauty of its 
magnificent freedom, — all conspired to assure him that, 
marvellous and past belief as such a fate appeared to 
him, it was no dream, but a stern, stony reality. 

An hour ago there was hope; but now there was no 
hope. Then it seemed not impossible but the bitter cup 
might pass from him ; and the thought of returning to 


236 Neighbors Wives. 

his humble occupation, to his mother and his i rimi, m his 
old home, and the old life of care and trial, which did 
not seem so bad a life after all, would thnll his heart 
most tenderly. But that is denied him — inexorably I 
The lot of a felon is his. 

To go with inglorious cropped hair; to work at his 
trade under a task-master, in a silent company of con- 
victs; to be dressed like them in the shameful prison 
uniform ; to be marshalled in degrading mechanical or- 
der to the workshops in the morning, and driven back 
in a dull tramping row at night, — himself one of that 
jeering, grotesque, melancholy tile, stamping with bi- 
colored legs, in sullen time with the rest; crowding close 
at the prison-doors, with some reckless horse-thief be- 
fore him, and some muttering murderer treading close 
behind ; turning his head now over his red shoulder, and 
now over his blue one, for a breath of untainted air; to 
take his turn at the kitchen slide, receiving his morsel of 
black bread and tin plate of mush, and carrying them to 
his allotted cell in the row of cells; his lonely supper; no 
wife, no child, to comfort him, no friend dropping in of 
an evening, no plans for to-morrow, or for next week, 
or for next year; no human face to cheer him ever, — 
only the dreary face of the chaplain, the unsympathizing 
countenances of his keepers, and the morose, brutal vis- 
ages of his fellow-convicts ; a spectacle to curious visit-' 
ors, who come to stare and make careless remarks while 
he marches in or out, or feeds, or cringes at his work, 
forbidden to look up ; and this life day after day, .and 


Through Prison Bars, 237 

week after week, and month after month, and year after 
year; — O merciful God ! must it be ? 

Did the judge, who enunciated the sentence with busi- 
ness-like precision, or the listeners, who heard it with 
keen relish of the tragical, measure the depth and 
breadth of its fearful significance; or weigh well one 
little grain of the load of grief and shame those few ea- 
sily-spoken words heaped irretrievably on the convict’s 
head ? 

And Abel was innocent; but what if he had been 
guilty ? It seems, when we think of it, a very special 
act of divine favor that any man is innocent of crime. 
The coil of circumstance has such subtile entangle- 
ments; and the glue of evil, wherever we move, is so 
plentiful and adhesive, and the way to the pit is so 
often in appearance the very path of necessity, and to 
advance step by step is so easy, while to return is so 
diflScult; and ever the illusions of sin are so seductive, 
and the human heart so weak, — how is it any one es- 
capes ? 

Guilty ! innocent ! — are these mere words ? Who is 
there that never did a wrong act, or felt a sinful desire ? 
And what is the mighty difterence, in God’s sight, be- 
tween wicked wishing and wicked doing ? or between 
the great and daring transgressor, and the small, weak, 
timid one V or between him who is powerfully tempted, 
and sins accordingly, and him who is tempted not at all, 
and so never, as we say, sinned ? Man provides pun- 
ishment for a few; but how about the rest, who may be 


238 


Neighbors' Wives. 


equally deserving ? Are there no murderers, loose in 
society, whom the law cannot touch, whose victims 
died, not by bludgeon and drug, perhaps, yet by the 
poison of secret wrong, and the strokes which make 
broken hearts ? How many robbers, think you, walk 
abroad with high heads, respectable, and defiant of 
grand and petit jury; who have committed no literal 
larceny, indeed, nor positive act of i30cket-picking; but, 
by more cautious practices in craft, have possessed 
themselves of their neighbors’ goods, rendering no 
equivalent? On the other hand, how many compara- 
tively honest men, like Abel Dane, have been subjected 
to punishment and life-long dishonor more by the in- 
iquity of others than their own ? And, to pry closely 
into the roots of things, what precious right have you, 
-sir, or you, madam, to condemn your brother or your 
sister ? Have you thought of it, ye proud, w'ho esteem 
yourselves better than the rest ? And you, O virtuous 
judge I have you considered it, sitting there on your 
cushioned bench, and uttering judgment, while your less 
fortunate brother stands trembling in the dock to be 
doomed ? 

If these be riddles to the wise, well may they puzzle 
the poor wits of honest Abel Dane. Social order must 
be had. The time has not come when the prison-house 
can be safely demolished. The world is not yet wise 
and good enough to put into practice the sublime and 
sweet doctrine of love, which knows neither gallows 
nor chain. In the mean while appearances and the rule 


Through Prison Bars. 


239 


of force have their day. The outward seinhlauce of 
good-citizenship shall pass for good-citizenship. The 
gross transgressor, who maintains hut one virtue to a 
thousand crimes, if that one virtue he a hen-like pru- 
dence hiding the evil hrood under its wings, shall 
he, perhaps, one of the guardians of society. And the 
man of many unknown virtues, and one poor little crime 
that betrays him, shall he delivered over to the judg- 
ment. What else ? Peace, loud-mouthed reformer ! 
Patience, ye seething hrains, that have begun to think, 
or to think you think I Charity, all ! charity not lor 
the criminal only, but for those, also, who hate the crim- 
inal ; and, if they did not help to make him what he is, 
at least help to keep him so. God lives; and his infinite 
providence enfolds alike the noble and the ignoble, the 
accuser and the accused; and the proud have their re- 
ward, and the meanest are not forgotten; and perfect 
justice is perfect mercy; and that shall comfort us. 

But was Abel Dane so comforted ? The hour of an- 
guish is not just the time to compute carefully the com- 
pensations of sufiering. Ko doubt truth shall triumph 
in the long run ; and the gloss of appearances shall not 
always avail; and every wrong shall be made right at 
last. At last ! — but is that a salve to quiet the grief 
of a present wound ? 

Staggering and heavy within him was the soul of 
Abel, as he stood and looked around him in the jail, 
and tried to understand, to feel, to be assured of him- 
self. A convict ! a jail-bird ! one of the despised an 1 


240 


Neighbors^ Wives. 


outcast of the earth I How was it ? He had endeav- 
ored to prepare himself for this emergency, but some- 
how it found him altogether unprepared. He had antic- 
ipated, even if condemned, a light sentence, — not more 
than a year, at the most; and he had believed he could 
endure so much. But five years ! — the thought be- 
wildered him. He remembered how lately he' had said 
in his heart that it would be easy to go to prison for 
another’s sake; but now that seemed an idle conceit, a 
flower of sentimentalism that could not stand the with- 
ering heat of this terrible day; and the memory of it 
sickened him. 

He could not help feeling that there was some mistake 
about the sentence. In his shaken state, he even had a 
dim hope that it had been pronounced only to try his 
manhood; or that the judge would think better of it, and 
order him to be released. Yes I there were the rattling 
keys again, — the sheriff was coming to set him free. 

Abel indulged in these miserable fancies, as some- 
times men, in the most utter hopelessness, will play with 
the phantoms of hope, — as the child at its mother’s 
funeral will gaze on the pallid face; and though it knows 
what death is, and that this is death, thinks it impossi- 
ble but that the closed eyes shall open again and the 
cold lips smile once more. 

But the sound of the keys and of opening locks was 
no delusion. And what was this that flew like a bird,' 
yet with a human cry and sob, to the grated door, and 
looked in upon him, clinging to the iron bars ? 


Through Prison Bars. 


241 


“Abel ! O Abel I ” 

He had sat down, without knowing it, upon a wooden 
bench. His face was buried in his hands. But at the 
call, he lifted his head, and then got up, moving slowly 
to the door. 

“ Eliza ! ” he said, in a hollow voice, trying to smile. 

He reached her his hand. She seized it and kissed it 
through the bars. 

“ Why, Eliza — Eliza,” — he spoke in the same hol- 
low, broken voice, but tenderly and soothingly, much 
as in old times, — “ don’t cry, child I there, there ! 
don’t cry.” 

“ O Abel 1 I never thought it would be so I ” 

“ Neither did I, my girl. But so it is. I try to be- 
lieve there is a God ! ” he said, and paused, — the black- 
ness of atheism rising like a cloud in his soul, shedding 
a sullen gloom, and darting defiant lightnings. He 
stood, with clenched teeth, grim and dark. 

“ O brother I don’t ! ” sobbed Eliza. “ There is a 
God I ” 

“I say, I try to believe it,” returned Abel; “and I 
suppose this is all right, if we could only see it so. But 
there is a black devil in my heart. He says to me what 
Job’s wife said to Job, — ‘ Curse God, and die ! ’ ” 

Eliza could only wring his hand and weep. 

“ Why did you come to me ? ” he asked. Haven’t you 
begun to think of me as the world will think ? I am 
going into a living tomb; to be buried five years; to 
rot in the memories of men, and be eaten by worms. 

21 


242 


Neighbors' Wives, 


There are worms that eat the body, and there are worms 
that consume heart and hope and good name. In a little 
time my friends will think of me with loathing, — that 
is the worst to bear.” 

“Never! never!” Eliza interrupted. “You must 
not imagine such a thing. I would die for you now, 
Abel ! And do you think I will ever forget you, or 
distrust you, or anything but love you ? ” 

“You are a good girl. I know you are sincere, and 
mean all you say. But I see ! ” — And the prisoner 
sighed with unutterable sadness, and shook his head. 
“ In a little while you will be a wife, and happy, and full 
of interest for your husband and household and little 
ones. And you will have new acquaintances, and a bright 
world all open to you, and occupation, and diversion ; and 
what will I be to you then ? ” 

“ What no one else will ever be ! ” she answered, with 
strange energy. “No one can ever fill your place, — not 
even my husband. Abel, you never knew how I loved 
you, — I never told you, — but I will tell you now; and, 
oh, if my love could only give you strength and com- 
fort ! If I could give up all my happiness, which you 
speak of, and save you, how gladly I would do it ! ” 

“ What ! your husband, your future, your friends, — 
all, Eliza ?” 

“ All ! I would give all to you, and feel that I was 
more blessed by the sacrifice. Then don’t say I will 
ever forget you. Don’t think I will in spirit forsake 
/ou one moment in all those dark coming years. Never 


243 


Through Prison Bars. 

imagine, though all should neglect you, that I shall for 
an instant neglect you in my wishes and in my prayers.” 

“ Eliza I angel I ” murmured the prisoner, thrilling 
from head to foot, and regarding her with a look all 
love and tears; “if we had only known each other, 
I should not now be here, — I should not now be the 
son of a worse than childless mother or the father of a 
worse than fatherless child, or the husband of — of any- 
body but you, darling Eliza ! ” he said, with ineffiible 
tenderness, folding her hand between both his, as if it 
were the most precious thing to him in all the world. 

“ We do not know,” said Eliza with a strange abstrac- 
tion, her face full of pain and vague yearning, her eyes 
full of sorrow and tears, looking, not at him, but, tremu- 
lously, far away. She seemed neither to be offended nor 
much surprised by what he said; but to accept it as sim- 
ple truth that might be spoken and heard without shame, 
now that prison-bars and the gulf of years were be- 
tween them. “ God only knows,” she added. “ And 
his ways are best, Abel. Oh, believe that I Oh, let us 
never doubt that, whatever comes I ” 

“ Pray for me ! ” said the prisoner, his whole man- 
nood shaken. “ I am afraid I have lost the power to 
pray for myself. I tried to, as I sat on the bench there, 
but couldn’t. My thoughts were like lead. Frozen 
clods weighed me down. And I said, ‘ I will pray no 
more, for God will not hear.’ But you awaken something 
in me that I thought was dead. For your sake, for 
your love’s sake, Eliza, I would not be lost. For your 


Neighbors' Wives, 


244 

Bake, for your love’s sake, I would live through the 
dreary years before me, and keep my faith in God, and 
in man, and in justice. Pray; and save me from that 
scepticism that is ten times worse than death 1 ” 

Eliza did not answer. She was weeping softly and 
unrestrainedly now, holding his hand pressed close 
against her cheek. Her head was bowed against the 
iron bars, through which, reaching, he laid his other 
hand soothingly upon it. 

“ Don’t cry ! ” he said again, with wondrous depth 
and sweetness of love in his tones; “I am better now 
and stronger. You have given me strength. Bless 
you, sister, — dearer than any sister I Go to your hus- 
band. Be happy, dearest. I want you to be very happy. 
It will lighten my heavy loneliness, thinking of you and 
your happiness. From this day I am but as a dead 
man. But you are still in the world, and you do right 
to enjoy it.” 

“ How can I ever ? ” burst forth the heart-broken 
girl. “ O Abel, how can you say so ? ” 

“ I am not speaking bitterly, but in all soberness and 
truth. It vnll solace my solitude to remember you, and 
know you are happy. And, though I am dead, I shall 
hope for the resurrection, in this world or the next, 
when we shall meet again. Go now, darling. I want 
you to carry the news to my mother — and my wife. 
My horse is at the tavern; you can drive him home. 
Make haste ; for I don’t want mother to hear the news 
from anybody but you. You will know how to be 


Thj'oiigh Prison Bars, 245 

gentle and tender with her. Heaven comfort her poor 
old heart 1 ” 

‘‘How can I tell her? Abel, it will kill her; she 
loves you so, and you are all she has ! ” 

“Not all, — she has you now. Stay a little while 
with her, Eliza, if you can. It will not be long that she 
will need you.” 

“ I will never leave her while she lives, — be sure of 
that ! ” said Eliza. 

“ Then I am content. I have settled up my affairs, 
so that I think the little remnant of my property will 
last out her days. As for my wife, — she has friends 
she can go to, if necessary. But Ebby, — my boy, — 
what will become of him ? ” 

“ If his own mother cannot provide for him, I will 
take him, and be thankful for the privilege. I will be 
his mother ; and I will love him for your sake, Abel.” 

“ Will you ? Then my mind is at rest. He may 
call you mother ; but, darling, do not forget, nor let him 
forget, that I am his father. I could not bear to have 
him learn to call any one else father, — even so good 
a man as your husband. And, Eliza, you will bring 
him up to think of me with affection, and without 
shame for the name he bears. Forgive me for saying 
it; I know you will be true to us both. There, wipe 
your tears, child. You must go.” 

“ (jto ! and not see you again ? Oh, I can’t,” she 
sobbed, “ I can’t say good-by ! ” 

“I am told I shall not be removed till to-morrow,” 
21 * 


246 Neighbors’ Wives. 

said Abel; “ so any one that wishes to visit me, can 
do so this afternoon. If Faustina wants to come, maybe 
you will come with her. And bring Ebby. I would 
like to kiss him for the last time, and have one last look 
to remember him by; he will be changed, he will be an- 
other child, five years from now. You must bring him to 
me in prison, at least once a year, Eliza. I can’t bear 
the thought of his growing beyond my remembrance.” 

With incoherent words, Eliza promised. And now, 
consoled by the thought of returning to him again in 
the afternoon, she found strength to take leave. 

“ I hope mother will not think of coming with you,” 
said Abel. “ She couldn’t stand it, and it would be too 
much for me. By all means, persuade her to stay at 
home. Yet” — a spasm twitched the muscle of his 
mouth — “perhaps I shall never see her again. But 
it will be better, — yes, it will be better for her not to 
come. The storm is dreadful.” And he looked up at 
the gusts of snow driving by the jail- windows. 

“ Kiss me, brother,” whispered Eliza. 

Between the bars of the grated door their lips met. 
Their hands clung together in a last embrace. Neither 
spoke. Then Eliza, hiding her face in her veil, disap- 
peared in the dark passage. At the end of it was an- 
other door, which had been locked behind her as she 
entered. She gave the necessary signal; it was soon 
opened again, and closed again; and Abel was alone 
and she was gone. 


The Convict's Beautiful Wife, 247 


XXYIL 

THE convict’s BEAUTIFUL WIFE. 

Meanwhile Faustina waited, in torments of anxiety, 
to learn the result of the trial, — Abel’s fate and her own. 
Now she tossed and groaned upon the bed. Now she 
went to the window, and looked out upon the tempest- 
uous snow-storm, straining her eyes to see, through the 
white, driving cloud, Abel or Eliza, or at least some 
friendly neighbor coming with the news. But no Abel 
appeared ; and nevermore would she behold, in storm or 
shine, that goodly form of manhood returning home to 
her as she had seen it countless times and cared not, in 
the by-gone, wasted years. 

Sigh, wretched wife I Wring your passionate, white 
hands, O woman fair to see ! Weep; blind your eyes 
with hot, impatient tears, as you gaze ! He is nowhere 
in the storm. He is not just beyond the corner of the 
common, where you could see him but for the dim vor- 
tex of snow, as you sometimes fancy. He will never 
come to you again, he will never smile kindly upon you 
again, at noon or evening, coming from his work, in all 
this weary world. Toss then upon your bed, and groan, 
thinking of what has been lost, and fearing what is U; 


come. 


248 


Neighbors Wives. 


For she was tortured also with fears. Up to the last she 
could not believe that Abel would really sacrifice himself 
for her. If conviction became certain, then surely he 
would save himself by giving her up. It was for his 
interest to preserve her good name, if possible to do so 
and at the same time avoid suffering the penalty of the 
law in her place. But more magnanimous conduct she 
could not understand. Each day of the trial, therefore, 
and now on this third day especially, she trembled with 
dread of exposure. And when she looked for her hus- 
band, she more than half-expected to be frightened with 
the sight of an officer sent to summon her before the 
awful court. 

But nobody came. She could not have even the mis- 
erable satisfaction of knowing the worst. And there 
was no one to sympathize with her, and listen to her 
conjectures and complaints, and help her waste the lone- 
ly hours of waiting, except Melissa. She made the 
most of Melissa, which indeed was not much. Now 
she called her to her bedside, and clung to her desperate- 
ly, and confessed to her, and questioned her; promised 
extravagant favors if she remained true to her, and 
threatened all the pains of death and hell if ever she be- 
trayed her secret. Then she would send her to the 
windows to look, or to the outer door to listen, to know 
if anybody was coming, — or at least to form some 
opinion whether anybody would come or not. , 

“ What do you think ? ” she asked once when the girl 
had been absent some minutes from the room, and re* 


The Convict's Beautiful Wife, 249 

turned to h — as appeared to Faustina — with the same 
slow discouraging step as usual. “ Is he coming ? Has 
he got clear ? Oh, dear ! dear ! Melissa, why don’t you 
speak ? ” 

But it was not Melissa who mournfully drew near the 
head of the bed, and stood there, unseen by Faustina, 
regarding her with speechless grief. 

“ Oh, I shall die ! I shall have another dreadful fit, I 
know I shall. Melissa, if you would save my life, why 
don’t you tell me again you think he is acquitted, and 
will be here soon ? I want you to keep saying it. 
That’s all the consolation I have. And he wouldnH be- 
tray r-^e, would he ? l)o you think he would ? ” 

No answer from the figure at the bed-head. But now 
wonder began to mingle with the heavy sorrow of the 
eyes that watched the writhing woman. 

“ He promised me so faithfully I But if he should not 
get clear ! Oh, what shall I do ? What would you do 
in my case, Melissa ? I wish I had run away a month 
ago ! What a fool I was ! I’d have done it if it hadn’t 
been for Tasso. He told me not to be afraid, but to stay, 
and never care what happened to my husband, — as if a 
body could ! — as if I hadn’t before my eyes every min- 
ute what may happen to myself. Oh, dear I ” 

And Faustina, restless, rose up in bed, and pushed 
back her hair, moaning as she twisted it away and threw 
it over her shoulder, and looked with burning languor 
and despair around her, as if in search of some object 
of hope on which to cast her weary heart; but saw in- 


250 Neighbors' Wives, 

stead, with a start of alarm, the silent figure behind her 
pillow. 

“ Eliza I she scarcely articulated, staring pallidly. 
“ Where — where is Melissa ? ” 

“ She is gone to put the horse in the barn,” replied 
Eliza. 

“ The horse I What horse ? ” Faustina hardly knew 
what she was saying, so great was her trepidation, think- 
ing of what she had already said, and Eliza — not Me- 
lissa — had heard. “ How did you come ? I — I — 
what did I say ? ” 

Eliza advanced to the side of the bed, and sat down 
upon it. The two looked at each other, — one with a 
countenance full of anguish and pity, the other with 
guilty, affrighted eyes. 

“ You know best what you were saying, and what you 
meant by it,” Eliza answered. “ I was thinking of what 
I have come to say, and what you must prepare yourself 
to hear.” 

“ Abel ? ” Faustina whispered, “ did he — has he 
come ? ” 

“Mrs. Dane,” Eliza said, with indescribable repug- 
nance in her heart, when she felt that she ought to show all 
sympathy and pity to the distressed creature before her, 
“your husband cannot come now; if you wish to see 
him you must go where he is.” 

Faustina did not speak; but, putting both hands to 
her head, slid them into her hair, and clenched them thus 
entangled over her neck, with an aspect of abject fear. 


The Convicfs Beautiful Wife, 251 

“ I have corae for you, if you wish to visit him. You 
must get reidy, while I go and break the news to 
mother.” 

“ Where is he ? ” 

“ In jail. To-morrow he will be taken to prison.” 

“ To prison ? O heavens ! You are dreaming, trying 
to frighten me ! ” 

“It is only too true,” said Eliza. “ I heard his sen- 
tence,” — clasping her hand on her heart at the remem- 
brance. 

Faustina was not so full of astonishment and grief for 
her husband, as not to reflect, with a secret, selfish hope, 
that her own guilt had probably remained concealed. 
She remembered also, in the midst of her consternation, 
that she had a part to play. 

“ To prison, did you say ? What prison ? ” she asked. 
“ For how long ? ” 

“ To the State prison. For five years,” replied Eliza. 

“ State prison I — my husband ! — Five years ! ” — 
And the miserable woman wrung her hair, and thrust 
it into her mouth, biting it. How much of this seeming, 
too, was real and unaflTected, and how much disguised or 
assumed, it would be hard to say. And whether it 
was chiefly grief for Abel, or remorse for her own mis- 
conduct, or only a selfish sorrow and alarm, who shall 
judge? But that fear and dismay were upon her, there 
could be no doubt. 

And why did not Eliza endeavor to soothe and en- 
courage her ? She believed it her duty, and accounted it 


252 


neighbors' Wives. 


a privilege, to give aid and counsel wherever they were 
needed. But, when she would have spoken sympathiz- 
ing words to this unhappy being, her heart contracted 
and her tongue refused to utter. It was not her own 
affliction, it was not jealousy, or vindictive hatred, be- 
cause of the irremediable wrong she knew this woman 
had done to her and to Abel, which made her shrink 
away and close her lips; but rather a sense oT falsehood, 
and of a deeper wrong concealed, which her sensitive 
nature scented like a corruption in the very air Faustina 
breathed. She arose from the bed. 

“Will you be ready?” she asked, going. “We are 
to take Ebby with us.” 

“ Oh, I can’t 1 ” cried Faustina. “ Such a storm I — 
Besides, I am sick. How can I go ? ” She threw her- 
self upon her face. To confront her husband in jail; to 
be present, knowing what he suffered, and was doomed 
still to suffer, for her, — and she wickedly i^ermitting; 
to listen to his reproaches, or, if he uttered none, to wit- 
ness the uncomplaining trouble his soul was in for her 
sake, more cutting than any reproach; to hear his trem- 
ulous words of leave-taking, to look into his face, and to 
part for so long, — oh, it seemed impossible to go 
through all this I Nevertheless, she reflected that it 
would be far the safest policy to visit him ; to go, and 
show her love; yes, and carry Ebby with her, to touch 
his heart; repeat her professions of fldelity, and make 
h'.m promise again, and once for all, never to betray her. 


The Convicfs Beautiful Wife. 253 


“ Tell me what to do ! ” she cried. “ It shall be as you 
say. Did he send for me ? ” 

She raised her head as she spoke, and looked for Eliza. 
But Eliza was not there. She was at another bedside 
now, holding in her arms the almost dying form of the 
convict’s stricken mother; trying in vain to impart to 
her a little consolation out of her own scanty store. 

Then Faustina, left alone, resolved to rise and dress 
herself whilst she was deciding in her mind what to do. 
She found a sort of distraction and relief in the occupa- 
tion. And though she vowed incessantly to herself that 
she could not go, and that she would not go, she con- 
tinued to put her apparel on, even to her mantle and 
furs; so that, when Eliza sent for her, lo, she was 
ready. And though she now, almost frantically, in- 
formed Melissa that she could not and that she would 
not, nevertheless, as if a spell had been upon her which 
she was powerless to resist, she went trembling and 
sighing to the outer door, where the wagon stood, and 
got into it, and took Ebby with her under the buf- 
falo-skin ; and did not faint dead away, as she had de- 
termined to do in Eliza’s sight, so that she might be left 
behind, but, irresolutely holding that strategy in reserve 
until it was too late, rode through the storm of wind and 
snow, and through the wilder storm of her own thoughts, 
to the centre of the town, and found herself at last 
alighting at the jail-door, as weak and helpless as Ebby 
himself, in Eliza’s governing hands. 

22 


254 


Neighbors' Wives. 


XXYIIL 

THE convict’s CHKISTIAN NEIGHBORS. 

From the window of his shop John Apjohn had seen 
Abel Dane’s wagon arrive and depart again. For the 
cooper did not attend court that morning. The two 
previous days, when he was required to be on the spot, 
had been enough for him, yea, too much. To swear 
the solemn oath; to stand up, in the presence of judge 
and jury and spectators, and bear witness against his 
neighbor, whose eyes were upon him; to tell, in terror 
of perjuring himself, the story of the tomatoes, and to 
hear the tittering, had been the most fearful ordeal of 
his life. How he was gored by ruthless forensic horns, 
and ferociously trampled and tossed as if the truth had 
been his life-blood, to be worried out of him in this mad- 
bull fashion ; how he fainted, and was carried out to be 
revived, and then brought back into the arena, to be 
whirled again in the air and trodden again in the dust; 
and how he was at last pitched carelessly out of 
the arena, a used up man, covered with sweat and 
flushes, while Prudence took the stand, and made sport 
for the Philistines, — all this he remembered sufficiently 


The Convict's Christian Neighbors, 255 

well to be made sick ever after by the sight of a court- 
house. 

But John’s was no merely selfish woe. He had been 
in a measure diverted from his own shame by his consci- 
entious concern for Abel. With the vindictive feelings, 
which animated his worthy wife, he had no sympathy; 
and this third morning, he waited and watched from his 
shop-window, afflicted with pangs of conscience, and un- 
able to work until he should learn that his neighbor had 
been acquitted. After seeing the wagon come and go, 
his restlessness grew intense. Eemain in his shop he 
could not. A bold resolution inspired him, and putting 
on his coat, and turning up the collar about his ears, he 
issued forth. Mrs. Apjohn called to him as he passed 
the house; but the said collar, and the storm that 
whistled about it, preventeci her being heard. 

“Where on airth can he be goin’ ? Why, he’s stop- 
pin* into Abel Dane’s gate, sure’s the world. The man’s 
crazy ! ” said Prudence. 

When the cooper returned, after a short absence, she 
fiew to the door to meet him. 

“Wal sad, John Apjohn! What have you done?” 
she cried, grasping him as if he had been a little boy, 
and dragging him into the house. “ Give an account of 
yourself, sir I ” 

“What/iave we done?” iterated the cooper; “what 
have we been and done, Prudy ? To be sure, to be 
sure ! ” 

“ We f what do you mean by we f ” She helped him 


2s6 


Neighbors' Wives, 


shake the snow from his coat, not very gently. “ What 
have voe done, say I ” 

“ I’ve seen Abel’s mother. She’s a sight to make any 
man sick of life, — most of all, one that’s been helpin’ to 
heap her troubles on to her. For Abel, Prudy, Abel — 
he’s sent to State’s prison for five year’ ! for five year’, 
Prudy 1 And it’s all our doin’s; it’s all our doin’s 
from the very fust I ” And as he uttered this speech, 
the agitated and remorseful John, having previously un- 
buttoned his coat, began to button it up again excited- 
ly, with the collar about his ears. 

The moment of triumph had arrived for good Mrs. 
Apjohn. But, alas ! where was the satisfaction ? She 
looked somehow as if smitten by ill tidings. She had 
achieved a signal victory over her supposed enemy, and 
she was not glad. All the imps that had been goading 
her on, and whispering in her soul night and day how 
good the revenge would taste, seemed suddenly to have 
deserted and left her to bite barren ashes. She sat 
down on the wood-box; and it was some seconds before 
she spoke. 

“ Wal, I don’t know as it’s my fault now. I’m as 
sorry for ol’ Mis’ Dane as anybody, and for her little 
gran’child, — he’s a re’l pooty little boy, and I pity him. 
And nobody can say’t ever I hated Fustiny bad enough 
to want her husband sent for five year’ — that seems 
mos’ too bad, I allow ! ” Prudy’s voice quavered, and 
her countenance betrayed trouble. “And I’d no idee of 
his gittin’ so long a sentence I had you, John ?” 


The Convict's Christian Neighbors, 257 

J ohn had been busy tying his red silk in a broad fold, 
over his upturned coat-collar, around his nose and ears, 
so that he now stood muffled to the eyes; and the voice 
of him seemed to issue from a tomb. 

“ I’m agoin’ for to see him, Prudy.” 

“ To see — who ? ” 

“Abel. I’m a goin’ with ol’ Mis’ Dane. ’Lizy and 
Paustiny and the boy had gone off; and she was in a 
.dreffle state, sayin’ they’d insisted on her stayin’ to 
hum; but she know’d she never’d see Abel agi’n in the 
world, if she didn’t see him to-day, and she didn’t keer 
for the storm, nor for sickness, nor for nothin’ ; but go 
she must and would; and if I’d harness up and carry 
her over, she’d be obliged. And I’m a goin’, Prudy ! ” 
With which announcement, he closed up the af)erture 
which he had opened between his handkerchief and his 
nose to make a passage for the words, and, putting on 
his hat, tightened the muffler about his ears as if deter- 
mined neither to say nor hear more on the subject. 

“ Now, John I ” began Prudence disconcerted, “ I don’t 
Know ’bout your goin’ off on any sech wild-goose chase ! 
Why didn’t you ask my advice ? Old Mis’ Dane ain’t 
fit to stir out of the house, in the best weather, ’cordin’ 
to all accounts; and to start off in sech a storm” — 

“ I’m a goin’, Prudy,” said the voice from the tomb. 
And John’s hand was on the door-latch. 

“ No you ain’t goin’, neither ! ” exclaimed Prudence, 
astonished by this act of rebellion. “ Jest stop a min- 
ute, can’t you, and hear to reason? You do beat all 
22 * 


2s8 


Neighbors' Wives, 


the obstinate, headstrong critters ! Come ! ” She put her 
hand quickly on her knee, and got upon her feet with all 
possible dispatch, and launched herself towards the door, 
with arm extended to seize him. But too late. Ob- 
stinate or not, John Apjohn meant to have his own 
way this time. Headstrong or not, for once in his life he 
determined to defy her conjugal authority, and take the 
risks. If she was the more muscular of the fwo, he was 
the more nimble. She was ponderous; but he was fleet. 
Prudence saw that she had no chance; and to stand in 
the door, and shout, against the indriving tempest, for 
him to return, she soon perceived to be idle. So she 
retired into the house, baffled, and inspired with a cer- 
tain respect for her husband which she never felt be- 
fore. 

He was going to take Mrs. Dane over to the jail, — 
that was settled. What should she do in the mean 
time ? Suffer it to be said that she was less neighborly 
than her husband ? And leave him alone to be wrought 
upon by the scenes he was to witness ? She seemed 
boiling with trouble for a minute; then she, too, formed 
a novel resolve. Off* went her old frock, and on went her 
second-best gown, in a twinkling. The hooks and eyes 
flew together with amazing rapidity, considering the 
capaciousness of the charms enclosed. And so great 
was her industry, that, by the time John had obtained 
a pony at a stable near by, and harnessed him, Prudence 
had locked the house, and stood ankle-deep in the snow, 
with her bonnet and cloak on, ready to accompa- y him. 


The Convicts Christian Neighbors. 250 

At sight of her, John was alarme:!. But she said 
kindly, — 

“ Put in a board, John, for you to set on. Me and 
Mis’ Dane I guess ’ll about fill up the seat.” 

And John, without a word, put in a board. 


26 o 


Neighbors' Wives, 


XXIX. 


IN JAIL. LEAVE-TAKING. 

Eliza warmed her numbed hands in the vestibule of 
the jail, while Faustina, with Ebby in her arms, fol- 
lowed the keeper. 

He opened the first heavy door, and, after usher- 
ing her in, clanged it together and locked it again. 
Then they were ready to advance to the second door. 
The ring of the iron, the formality and preparation, 
the dim light in the passage, the sound of the keep- 
er’s feet on the echoing stone fioor, added to the 
thought of so soon meeting her husband, filled her limbs 
with trembling, and her soul with almost superstitious 
dread. She could scarcely support the burden of her 
child upon her fainting heart. As if to enhance her 
trouble, Ebby began to cry. She stood waiting for the 
jailer to precede her. White and terrified, she obeyed 
his summons to follow. Before her was the gratea 
door, through the bars of which he called Abel to ap- 
proach; and she heard his slow footsteps coming along 
the fioor of the hollow cell, — tramp, tramp, — while 
each moment there was danger that the swoon she had 


In Jail, Leave-Taking. 


261 


had in contemplation so long, and kept in reserve, would 
take vengeance for being trifled with, and master her in 
good earnest. 

But the grated door was opened also; and Ebby, as 
he slipped from his mother’s breast, was caught in the 
arms of his father. And Faustina, bowing her face 
upon Abel’s shoulder, clung and wept there until her 
limbs fairly failed beneath her, and she sank down help- 
lessly upon the jail-floor. 

Half-kneeling and half-sitting, she sank and bent her 
fair head, from which the bonnet had fallen, and covered 
her fairer face, — a rather graceful and exceedingly pa- 
thetic figure; the sight of whom, together with the pris- 
oner standing by, hugging the child, and saturating his 
little curls with big, manly tears, did mightily wrench 
that unofllcial part of the jailer’s nature, called a heart; 
for the jailer was the sheriff also. It was excellent Mr. 
Wilkins, whom we remember; the same who went to 
arrest Abel, and was sorry to see him come out of the 
house with Ebby in his arms, that moonlight night in 
autumn. He was not one of the brutal, relentless turn- 
keys you read about in romances, but a man. And 
now, retiring with the keys, having locked the duplicate 
doors, and wiped the duplicate tears that surprised him, 
he went and sat down in the vestibule, and talked feel- 
ingly to Eliza, and told her how grievous a thing it was 
for a young wife, so beautiful and afiectionate, to see 
her convict husband in jail, and to take leave of him. 
And he brushed his misty eyes again, — good, honest 


262 


Neighbors* Wives. 


gentleman, — and no doubt thought he was informing 
her of something new; for Eliza did not find occasion 
to wipe her eyes, but sat in a sort of dreamy stupor, and 
warmed her benumbed hands, and tried to warm her 
benumbed heart by the fire. 

Abel assisted his wife to arise, and led her, reluctant 
and sobbing, to a bench. There they sat down, silent 
both, a long time, — he with Ebby in his arms, Faustina 
weeping still. 

“ Papa,” said the child, frowning with dislike at the 
walls, as he glanced furtively around, “ go home, papa I 
go I” 

Abel heaved a tremendous sigh. 

“ Home, my poor boy ? Papa can’t go home any 
more,” he said, in a convulsed voice. 

The baby frown contracted to a scowl of pain and terror. 

“Home, papa ! home ! ” he entreated. “Ebby ’Paid.” 

“ Hush, my boy,” answered Abel, soothingly, stroking 
the child’s hair, and kissing again and again his beauti- 
ful white forehead. “Papa will go home some time, — 
yes, some time, darling I Ebby must love mamma, and 
mamma must take care of Ebby now.” 

“O Abel,” uttered Faustina, with wild and stifling 
grief, “ I can’t have it so ! I never believed it could be I 
It is too hard I too unjust ! ” 

“Hard and unjust, truly,” said Abel; “but it must 
be borne. Be calm, now, Faustina; for I have many 
things to say to you, and the time is short.” 

But the distressed one seemed resolved not to be calm. 


In ’Jail. Leave-Taking. 263 

She llirew her face down despairingly upon his lap, ut- 
tering moan after moan. At length she lifted her head, 
and, with wet, flashing eyes, whispered passionately, — 

“Abel, I am determined! You shall never go to 
prison I If either must go, I will I I’ll see the judge, 
and tell him everything. I’d have done it before; but 
I thought you would be acquitted. You know — you 
know I can’t let you suffer in my place, — for my fault,” 
— looking around to see that no one was listening. 
And she made a motion towards rising, — thinking, no 
doubt, that Abel, the devoted, would detain her. 

But he didn’t. Whether he suspected the sincerity 
of her declaration, or was indeed willing that she should 
assume the responsibility and odium of her own act, he 
sat seemingly content to let her do as she pleased. 
That was a more efiective damper to her resolution 
than any opposition could have been. She had no more 
than half-risen when she fell again upon his breast. 
He regarded her with a dreary smile and head-shake, 
but said nothing. 

“ Oh, what shall I do ? ” she inquired, embracing him. 

“Ask your conscience, not me,” said Abel. “I’ve 
as much as I can do to give counsel to my own heart. 
These are bitter days, Faustina. I shall try to do my 
duty, and I pray God you may do yours.” 

“ What is my duty ? Tell me, and I’ll do it, if it is 
to kill myself I ” vowed the fair one. 

“It is not to kill yourself, but to live, — if not for 
yourself nor for me, for our child here,” said Abel. 


264 


Neighbors^ Wives. 


“ I will I I will I ” Faustina eagerly cried ; for truly 
she had no very lively wish to die ; and to promise that 
she would devote herself to Ebhy out of prison, whilst 
Abel devoted himself to her in it, struck her as an easy 
and reasonable compromise. 

“ As for your acknowledging to the world the error 
for which I suffer, I have no advice to give,” he went 
on. “At first, I should have honored you', had you 
been so brave and true. Such nobleness would have 
more than purchased my pardon. But I have given 
you my pardon without it. And I don’t think now 
that you have any heart to redeem me from infamy and 
imprisonment by criminating yourself. Well, I am 
satisfied. I have given you my word not to expose 
you; and I shall keep my word. In return I ask only 
one favor, — and that not for my sake, but for your 
own and our child’s. Kemember me in prison. Think 
of the long days and long nights of those terrible and 
solitary years. And atone, Faustina I before God, atone 
for the wrong you have done, by becoming a true 
woman and mother 1 ” 

She only wailed in low, disconsolate tones. And he 
continued : — 

“ So this awful calamity may be made a blessing to 
us all. For I shall not regret it, if, five years from now, 
I see you the woman you may be, Faustina ! Oh, put 
away falsehood and frivolity now I Conquer that rest- 
lessness, that hankering for excitement, which argues a 
mind uncentred in itself, and unblessed by duty. Let 


In yatl. Leave-Taking. 265 

your tender care of our child occupy you now. It will 
be occupa ion enough ; it will be amusement enough. 
For what other amusement can you have while I am 
serving out my sentence? Oh, deepen your heart; deepen 
your heart ! ” he entreated her. “ It is shallow, Faus- 
tina; even here, and now, it is shallow and vain and 
full of pretence. I say it not unkindly, but pityingly 
and in sorrow.” 

He laid his hand upon her head ; and for the moment 
something of his own overmastering earnestness seemed 
to pass into her. 

“ Oh, yes I pity me I ” she said. “ Be sorry for me I 
I can’t help being as I am, — I would help it if I could. 
But I will be better; I will try, oh, so hard ! ” 

“ I think you will try,” said Abel. 

“Every day, every night, I will remember you; and 
I will not be vain any more. I will not be idle and 
proud any more. How can I be proud now ? ” 

“ Poor child ! poor child ! ” said Abel, very heavy- 
hearted, but full of the tenderness of mercy. “God 
help you ! Pray to Him. Oh, be faithful and sincere I 
Again, I entreat you ! don’t forget me; and love, oh, 
love and cherish this our darling boy I ” 

Ebby cried again, shrinking from his mother, and 
nestling in Abel’s bosom. 

Vehemently, then, Faustina pledged herself to do all 
he required of her. She would avoid unprofitable asso- 
ciates. She would do everything he could wish. A crop 
of fair promises, profuse and instantaneous as fungi, — 
23 


266 Neighbors' Wives, 

and alas, equally unsubstantial, — whitened over the 
rottenness of her heart. And once more Abel almost 
believed in her, and almost hoped. 

“ And Abel ! ” she said so softly and sadly and fondly 
that it was impossible for the strong, tender man not to 
be touched, — “ I want you to say one thing. Only one 
thing, dearest I I can’t be strong, I can’t hope, I can’t 
even live without it 1 ” 

“ Speak, and I will say all I can,” replied Abel. 

“ You know,” murmured the sorrowful one, — resum- 
ing more and more of her old winsome ways, which be- 
came marvellously her depressed and tearful state, — 
“ you know, Abel, you haven’t been to me what you were 
before ” — (with a shudder). “ You have forgiven me; 
and you have been kind, — too kind. But the dreadful 
separation ! Oh, if I have nothing better to look forward 
to, I had better die now. If I am never to have your 
confidence and affection again, if you are not to be my 
husband again, but only as a friend, a father, so distant, 
so cold, — oh I what have I to live for ? ” 

Abel kept silent a moment, mightily shaken by this 
appeal. He thought of Eliza, — a wife. He recalled 
his first hopeful and fresh passion for this erring daugh- 
ter of Eve, — 

“ His life and sole delight 
Now at his feet, submissive, in distress.” 

And the wreck of himself thrown back upon the world, 
broken, despised, after five years of shame and insult to 


In yail. Leave-Taking, 267 

his manhood, he well enough foresaw. Who would 
love him, who would comfort him then ? She kissed 
his hand; she pleaded. Oh, would he not give her one 
word of hope ? 

“ I will ! I will ! ” said Abel, with quivering lips. 
“Faustina, be assured. In the sight of Heaven, now, 
we will pliglit our vows, — not idly, as when we plighted 
them for our first, false marriage; but this second mar- 
riage shall be solemn and true. It is a long engage- 
ment, — five gloomy, gloomy years; but the probation 
will be blessed to us, if we are equal to it. And, hear 
me now, — if, when I come again into the light and air 
of liberty, I find you faithful to your promises, a true 
woman and mother, then I will be indeed your husband, 
and give you more love and confidence than you ever 
had or asked.” 

With a cry of joy and gratitude Faustina clasped 
him, and entered into this strange second engagement 
with plenteous vows. 

Then Abel spoke to her of his worldly affairs, and 
finally came to the subject which he had reserved for 
the last, because what he had to say on that he wished 
especially to be remembered and esteemed sacred, — 
her duty to his mother. 

But hardly had he commenced his earnest charges 
when, greatly to his amazement and alarm, Mr. Sheriff 
Wilkins reappeared, jingling keys and opening doors, 
followed by Eliza and excellent Mrs. Apjohn, who sup- 
ported between them the feeble, tottering form of old 


268 


Neighbors’ Wives, 


Mrs. Dane. Hat in hand and awe-stricken, the bald 
little cooper walked humbly in the rear. 

Abel, at sight of his mother, set Ebby hastily down 
and rose to his feet. He extended his arms, and, with a 
cry, she fell forward upon his neck. Eliza supported 
her still, and helped to place her gently on the bench; 
whilst Prudence found her handkerchief and wiped her 
red nose, and the honest man, her husband, hfd his face 
behind his hat. 

“Come, John !” said Prudence, turning away; “this 
ain’t no place for us. We’ve done our duty, and showed 
our good will; and now le’s leave.” 

But, lo 1 the door was locked, and soft-hearted Sheriff* 
Wilkins had retired. And John, strangling behind his 
hat, gave no heed to his good wife’s suggestion. And 
now Abel, emerging, as it were, from the sea and tem- 
pest of his grief, lifted his head, and addressed the Ap- 
john pair. 

“Ho, don’t go I I have something to say to you, 
Neighbor Apjohn, I have to thank you for your kind- 
ness. You have not persecuted me. You have not will- 
ingly borne witness against me. And you have done a 
neighborly act in bringing my mother here to see me; 
though. Heaven knows, I hoped she would not come. 
Still, I thank yon; I thank you for your good will from 
the bottom of my heart.” 

But the cooper did not seem to hear. He stood where 
he had stood from the first, stifiing behind his hat. 
Prudence changed from purple-red to sallow-pale, and 


In Jail. Leave-Taking. 26Q 

looked with an embarrassed, restless expression about 
her, and coughed, and blew her nose, not knowing what 
else to do. 

Abel sat with his arms about his mother, endeav- 
oring to solace and soothe her. But she, heart-broken, 
could do nothing but weep helplessly, and choke with her 
own tears, — a piteous spectacle, — she was so old and 
feeble, and loved her son with such entire and dependent 
affection, and had always been so proud of him, and was 
left so desolate now. 

“ If you had died, my son I ” she broke forth inco- 
herently, “ it would not have been so hard. I shall die 
soon, and we might hope to meet again. But this ! — 
Oh, I can’t be reconciled to it I Heaven forgive me, 
but I can’t I ” 

It was singular that sorrow seemed to have swept 
away the old obstruction in her speech, and that her 
words flowed now with her tears. 

Eliza could not endure the scene; but, turning to the 
iron-grated door, she put her face between the bars, 
and sobbed alone. And she was guiltless of any wrong 
towards Abel: what, then, must have been her pangs 
had she felt upon her conscience the burden which Mrs. 
Apjohn was trying to carry ofi* so stoutly, or that which 
Faustina was laboring to conceal ? As for the latter, 
she occupied the time in crying, and so played her part; 
whilst Prudence pinched her lips together, and used her 
handkerchief, and tossed her chin, and so played hers. 

23 * 


270 


Neighbors' Wives. 


XXX. 

THE OLD LADY TAKES FINAL LEAVE. 

EAR mother,” said Abel, “it is not so bad aa 
it might be. Though convicted and sentenced, 
still I am innocent ; and that ought to comfort 
us. Whatever others may believe, we have that 
knowledge, and that comfort.” 

“ Poor comfort I ” replied his mother, convulsively. 
“ The innocent suffer, and the wicked go unpunished. 
The wrong is too great to endure. I have no malice,” — 
she went on, after a paroxysm of silent anguish, — “I 
never cursed anybody in my life ; but I do pray that 
them that’s done this deed, and made you the scape- 
goat of their sin and v^pite, I pray they may feel the 
evil they have done recoil upon their own heads. I 
may not live to see it ; but I humbly pray it may 
be so.” 

This was uttered with an energy which the mild and 
benevolent old lady rarely manifested ; then she re- 
lapsed again into unconstrained grief. Faustina still 
kept masked ; but Mrs. Apjohn winced. 

“Wal, Mis’ Dane,” she began, “I’spose you mean 
that for a hit at me and my husband here ” — 



The Old Lady takes Final J.eave, 271 

“Not your husband ! not John I” — the old lady in- 
terrupted her, — “I believe he’s as harmless as this child 
here.” 

At which allusion to himself, Master Ebby, who had 
long been looking on, in wonder and terror and pity, to 
see the grief of them all, and especially the grief of his 
good old grandmother, in that strange, ugly place, set 
up a scream. Eliza came and took him. John Apjohn, 
meanwhile, touched by Mrs. Dane’s testimony in his 
favor, might have been seen strangling harder than ever 
behind his hat. 

“ Come, come, mother,” said Abel, smoothing her thin, 
gray hair with his troubled hands, as he strove to pacify 
her; “ we will blame nobody; we will bear all patiently, 
and blame nobody.” 

“ Yes, I would, now I ” said Mrs. Apjohn, flushed, hei 
lips violently compressing and relaxing, and her entire 
frame (which is saying a good deal) trembling with her 
emotion. “You may blame me; I’m perfectly willin’. 
And I don’t mean to say but what I’m desarvin’ of 
some blame, but not all. I jest as much believed Abel 
hung them tomatuses on to my door, and stole my money, 
as that my name is Prudence Apjohn; and I hain’t seen 
no good reason yit for changin’ my mind. And I con- 
sider I had a right to feel hurt, and make a complaint 
’fore a justice, under the circumstances. But as for 
wishin’ Abel Dane to go to State’s prison for five year’, 
my husband here he knows I never wished any sech 
thing; and I’m as sorry for’t as anybody.” So saying 


272 JSFeighbors^ Wives ^ 

the worthy woman dropped some penitent water from 
her eyes, — without appearing to know it, however, for, 
instead of using her handkerchief, now there was really 
need of it, she bore up like a good ship against the storm, 
carrying her head high. 

“ Well, well I the Lord knows ! the Lord knows I ” 
murmured old Mrs. Dane. “ He knows many a secret 
that’s hid from our eyes. And the day of reckoning will 
come for us all soon. I bear no malice; I bear no mal- 
ice,” she repeated. “You was kind to come over here 
with me; though I don’t suppose you’d have come, if’t 
hadn’t been for John. I had always generally found 
you a kind neighbor enough till this quarrel. You got 
a terrible quirk into your head then, which I never could 
account for; though it was nat’ral enough, I presume. 
But that you may know how you have misjudged my 
son, let me tell you this, that he never mentioned, even 
to me, about your taking the tomatoes from our garden 
till after he was arrested.” 

“ As for the tomatoes,” spoke up Faustina, seized by 
one of her unreasonable impulses, “ you have been a 
fool, Mrs. Apjohn ! It was not my husband who hung 
them on to your door. It was ” — 

She had commenced speaking under the influence of a 
wild feeling that the misunderstanding about that un- 
happy retaliatory trick of Tasso’s was the origin of all 
this trouble, which might even now be remedied by 
declaring the truth. But having spoken thus far, a 
fear that she was saying something indiscreet caused 


The Old Lady takes Final Leave, 273 

her to hesitate. Abel had started with surprise; and 
the suspicion that alarmed him had entered Mrs. Ap- 
john’s mind also. 

“ It was you, then ! Own up now I ” cried Prudence. 
“You can’t deny it! It’s too late I you’ve half-con- 
fessed it ! ” 

That decided Faustina to avow the truth. 

“It wasn’t me, nor my husband. But I’ll tell you 
who it was; it was Tasso Smith.” 

Prudence was struck dumb. 

“Do you know what you say ? ” demanded Abel. 

“ Yes, I do; for he told me.” 

“ And how did he know tomatoes would insult Mrs. 
Apjohn ? ” 

“I — I suppose I — told him 1 ” confessed Faustina, 
perceiving now what a rash thing she had done. “ But 
I — I had forgotten it.” 

Abel breathed thick and hard, restraining himself, as 
he looked upon her and listened to these words. 

“ And why on airth,” burst forth Prudence, with all 
her power of astonishment and indignation, “ didn’t you 
never tell it was Tasso, and so save all this trouble to all 
on us ? ” 

Poor Faustina scarcely remembered why she didn’t. 
Ah, yes ! it was because she feared Tasso would betray 
her, if she did I And here she was implicating him, and 
laying herself open to his revenge I — ever as foolish as 
she was false. But she would see him and excuse her- 
self to him, she thought. And now a convenient lie 


274 


iVcigh b 0 rs Wives . 

suggested itself as an answer to Mrs. Apjohn’s reasona- 
ble inquiry. “■ Because,” said she, “ I never knew it 
myself; Tasso never told me till — long after. I met 
him the other clay in the street, and he was very 
sorry, and begged of me not to tell. Abel was in- 
dicted then, and I knew nothing could prevent his 
having a trial.” 

Abel groaned. “ But you should have told me, Faus- 
tina ! Why didn’t you ? ” 

“ I didn’t want you to know I had seen Tasso. I 
didn’t mean to see him, — it was an accident, — but you 
dislike him so, I thought you would be offended.” 

Faustina possessed a decided talent for mendacity; 
by the exercise of which she was now in a fair way to 
repair her recent indiscretion. There was such a var- 
nish of vraisemhlance on these lies, that all were de- 
ceived by them. 

“ O Tasso Smith ! Tasso Smith I ” muttered Prudence, 
quivering with rage. 

Abel groaned again. “You see, my friends, you had 
truly no reason to seek revenge against me.” 

“ And some day, Mrs. Apjohn,” cried old Mrs. Dane, 
“ some day, you will know that my son was as innocent 
of stealing your money as of contriving that trick with 
the tomatoes. 1 shan’t envy you your conscience then I 
I shan’t envy you your conscience then I ” 

Poor Prudence, confused, convinced, pricked to the 
heart, knew not which way to turn or what to say. At 
this juncture, however, there occurred a circumstance 


The Old Lady takes Final Leave, 275 

which gave her something to do. Cooper John, de- 
fending himself from observation behind his hat, and at 
the same time shutting out from his eyes the spectacle 
of the convict’s interview with his family; strangling 
more and more; and leaning latterly against the wall 
for faintness, as he listened to the last stunning revela- 
tion; the sensitive and conscientious little man, over- 
whelmed at length by a cumulative sense of error 
and fatality, as by a slowly-gathered tremendous wave, 
grew dizzy under it, saw all things color of dim purple 
a moment, and was carried off his legs. A cry and a 
tumbling fall announced his catastrophe. 

“Prudy, P-r-u — ” he weakly gasped, and measured 
his length along the jail floor. 

The swoon, which Faustina had kept by her so long, 
had deserted, and gone over to Mr. Apjohn. And a 
very mortal-seeming swoon it was. Pallid, breathless, 
and apparently pulseless and bloodless, lay the limp, 
insensible cooper, — his tuftless crown having struck 
the pavement with a concussion of itself almost sufficient 
to rive the rind of life round that “ distracted globe.” 

Prudence picked him up, getting down with no little 
difficulty to perform that office. But his lifeless hands 
fell from him, and his head rolled this way and that, as 
she endeavored to set him up and hold him in position 
m her knee and arm. Meanwhile, Abel seized his 
pitcher (the prisoner’s solitary pitcher), and besprinkled 
the white face with its contents. All in vain. The last 
tick of life’s timepiece seemed over in that still breast. 


276 


Neighbors' Wives. 


“ O John I John ! John I ” cried Prudence, wildly, 
“ don’t die 1 — Somebody run for a doctor ! — Oh, dear 1 
to be locked up in jail at sech a time, and my husband 
dyin’ I ” And she screamed for help, not perceiving 
that Abel was doing all in his power to summon assist- 
ance. “ That’s right, ’Lizy, — rub him I Blow in his 
face I Does he breathe ? ” 

No; John did not breathe, and there was no lively 
prosjoect that he would ever breathe again. Observ- 
ing which, all the latent affection and regret in Mrs. 
Apjohn’s large, blunt nature was aroused. 

“ Oh, I’ve been a wicked woman ! and this is to pun- 
ish me I I never desarved so good a husband; for he was 
the bestest that ever was ! Do you hear me, John ? 
Squeeze my hand, John, if jmu do I ” 

But John did not squeeze her hand. However, Eliza 
now declared that he exhibited signs of returning con- 
sciousness. 

“ Oh, bless him ! bless him ! if he will only live ! ” 
cried Prudence, hoping fondly for a reprieve from what 
seemed certain widowhood. “ I never’ll be ha’sh with 
him agin 1 I’ll listen to his advice always, — which if 
I’d done it in this affair of Abel’s, we wouldn’t none of 
us be here now ! Cornin’ to, ain’t you, John ? Don’t 
ye know me, John ? Oh, the blessedest man I Give 
me some sign, can’t ye ? ” 

The “ blessedest man ” had been laid upon his back, 
with Abel’s coat for a pillow. And now, anxiously and 


The Old Lady takes Tinal Leave. 277 

tenderly, broad-bosomed Prudence bent over him, look- 
ing for “ some sign.” 

“ If yoi love me, John, spit in my face I ” she entreat- 
ed him. 

J ohn did not grant this expressive token of endear- 
ment. But he moved his mouth, uttered a faint groan, 
and opened his eyes. About this time the jailer ap- 
peared; some spirits were quickly brought and adminis- 
tered ; and the cooper was soon able to rub his contused 
scalp, stare about him, and spit in anybody’s face that 
might request that precious favor. 

“ I’ve saved him ! I’ve saved my man ! ” exclaimed 
Prudence. “ And O Mis’ Dane 1 ” she continued, in the 
fulness of her heart, “ I’d save your son for you if I 
could I I’ve done wrong, and I regret it, and shall regret 
it the longest day I live. Oh, that Tasso Smith ! that 
Tasso Smith ! Whuther you took the money or not, 
Abel, I don’t know, and I don’t keer; for we’re all on us 
liable to be tempted,” — as that virtuous woman knew 
from experience. “ Fustiny hain’t used me well, and 
she knows it; but I’m sorry I’ve had a spite agin 
her. And as for you, Abel Dane, I’ve always sot 
by you from a boy, and my husband here, he knows ” — 

What the sad, gaping, half-stupefied cooper knew did 
not appear, for the good wife’s speech was lost in inward 
convulsion; the snow-mountains of her breast (to com- 
pare great things with things which can hardly be called 
small) had melted, and avalanche and torrent were 
plunging. 24 


278 


Neighbors' Wives. 


When she recovered, arfd her man had altogether come 
to, they witnessed an alarming movement. Attention 
had too long been directed to them. The excitement 
which had so far sustained old Mrs. Dane, and the emo 
tion which agitated her, had passed away, and taken hei 
life-force with them. Abel and Eliza had simultaneously 
observed her sinking. They caught her, they bore her 
to the prisoner’s narrow bed. No shriek, no violent out- 
cry for help; but silent celerity, a murmur of grief, 
and all-absorbing sadness and tenderness, gave token of 
the entrance within those walls of the unseen messenger, 

— the same who enters alike the abode of the fortunate 
and the dwelling of the wretched, and waits not for doors 
to be opened, and stops not for prison-bolts and bars. 

“ Abel — children,” — faintly fell the voice of the dy- 
ing, — “ where am I ? ” She revived a little, and saw 
the beloved faces bending over her surcharged with 
love and sorrow. “ I remember I ” And the smile of 
the dying was sweet. “ My son ! I shall be with you ! ” 

The assistant-jailer entered, and, failing to perceive 
the solemn mystery that was enacting, announced that 
the visitors’ time was up. 

“ True,” whispered the scarce audible voice, “ my time 

— is up. I am going. Eliza ! do not mourn I Our 
heavenly Father, — he is merciful ! He has sent for 
me 1 ” 

Her clear and beautiful countenance became singularly 
illumined. Something had been said of calling a physi* 


Cl an. 


The Old Lady takes Final Leave, 279 

“1^0 — tell them,” she roused herself to remonstrate. 
“ Let me go — in peace. Only my children around me. 
Tell Mr. Apjohn — I thank him. And Mrs. Apjohn — 
I forgive her.” 

Aghast and pale, like one lately raised from the dead, 
the cooper stood behind the bed, and saw and heard. 
Mrs. Apjohn wrung her hands with unavailing remorse. 

“ It’s me that’s done it I it’s me that’s done it I ” came 
bubbling from her lips. 

“ Where is Ebby ? ” the dying woman asked. Abel 
lifted up the boy. “Here,” she added, with a feeble 
motion of her hand upon her breast. Abel placed him 
softly there. She kissed him with her pallid lips; she 
caressed him with her pallid hands, and murmured a 
blessing; and Abel took him gently away. “Faustina, 
— where is she ? ” 

The guilt}’’ girl was crouching, fear-stricken, over the 
foot of the bed; watching, with I know not what fren- 
zied thoughts, the death of which her own heart told 
her she was the cause. Eliza led her forward, strangely 
shrinking. 

“My daughter!” Weakly the cold, death-stricken 
hand took the fevered hand of the living. Starting back 
instinctively, Faustina snatched away her hand, and 
Eliza’s was taken instead. “Abel — my son!” His 
hand was taken also; and, now in the blindness of death 
not seeing what she did (though I think the spirit saw, 
and kne v), the parting mother placed Eliza’s hand in 
Abel’s. 


28 o 


Neighbors’ Wives. 


“ Be a true — loving wife I — My son ! love her al- 
ways I — God bless ” — 

She drew the united hands to her lips, which closed 
upon them. Astounded, plunged in deepest affliction, 
Abel could not withdraw his hand; nor could Eliza 
hers. Long and lingering was that prophetic, dying 
kiss. Nor did the hold and pressure of the thin aged 
fingers relax when all was over. 

For all was over in very deed. The fingers that clung 
still, and the lips that kissed still, were the lips and fin- 
gers of the dead. And Abel and Eliza lifted up their 
eyes, and looked at each other with emotion unutterable; 
while Faustina crouched again at the foot of the bed 
w lite and shivering, like an outcast. 


The Beginning of the End, 


281 


XXX r. 


THE BEGINNING OF THE END. 

The storm whirled and whistled by the window, and 
the afternoon grew dim, in that solemn cell. The hands 
of the living had been withdrawn, and the hands of the 
dead were placed composedly upon the breast now 
stilled forever. Abel stood and gazed long ; his counte- 
nance emerging from its cloud and agitation into a 
strange, almost smiling tranquillity. 

“ It is well I She is happier.” — He turned to his wife : 
“ You have now no care but our child; be faithful and 
remember.” — Then, laying his hand upon Eliza’s fore- 
head : “You are free now. Go to your husband and be 
happy.” 

Dimmer still grew the afternoon ; and the hour came 
when the corpse must be carried out, and Abel must look 
his last upon it, and behold Eliza go with it, to return to 
him no more. Mrs. Apjohn, assiduous and energetic, 
accompanied; the cooper had glided out before, like a 
silent ghost. Lastly, Faustina took leave, with Ebby. 
And Abel was left alone. 

Alone; and the night descended, tempestuous, — sifting 
snow and sleet beating all night upon the pane; howls 
24 * 


282 


Neighbors^ Wives, 


and moans resounding all night about the prisoner’s cell. 
Sitting or walking, he pondered ; or, lying on the hard 
couch on which his mother had died, he waked, or slept, 
waiting for the morrow. 

The morrow ! what a day was that ! The storm rag- 
ing still; the corpse lying in the house; neighbors com- 
ing in; preparations for the funeral; the hush as of 
ashes strewn upon the floor; the utter, bewildering 
vacancy, — the silent ache of the heart, — which one 
mourner felt, thinking of the empty morrows still to 
come, and of her fellow-mourner far away. 

The next day was the funeral. Where was Abel 
then ? When the sexton tramped through the drifts 
with pick and spade to the graveyard; when the cus- 
tomary sermon was preached, and the psalm sung, and 
the prayer said; when the little procession followed the 
corpse to the fresh heap of earth thrown up beside the 
snowy mound beneath which mouldered the ashes of old 
Abel Dane, the carpenter, — the dog Turk walking seri- 
ously through the snow by Eliza’s side, leaving the prints 
of his feet; when Eliza lifted Ebby up to take a last 
look of what had been his good old grandmamma’s face, 
before the coflin-lid was closed and screwed down; 
when the coffin wa4 lowered, and the gravel shovelled in 
upon it, to the sound of the tolling bell; and the 
mourners and neighbors returned, dazzled by the sud- 
den glitter of sunshine on the pure, new-fallen snow ; and 
Eliza entered once more the hollow house, and listened 
to the drip of the eaves, and the blue sky smiled 


The Beginning of the End, 283 


overhead, and neighbors came and went; — where, all 
this time, was Abel ? 

Side by side now, in the white and quiet field, under 
the pacified December weather, slept all that was mor- 
tal of old Abel Dane the carpenter, and of Abigail his 
wife; while Abel, son of the preceding, was buried, 
mortal part with the immortal, in a very different tomb. 

Would you penetrate that mausoleum of the living, — 
behold him with shaven crown, in convict’s cap and coat, 
the livery of the doomed, — visit him when he eats, in 
his whitewashed solitary cell, the crust by the state 
provided, — stand by when he subdues his spirit to work 
under an overseer, at the work-bench of condemed horse- 
thieves and burglars, his predecessors and companions, 
— witness the sweat of his body and the sweat of his 
soul, the days and nights of his long death ? — 

For this living is true dying ; 

This is lordly man’s down-lying ”, 

Nay, rather let us leave him there, as we leave his 
mother where she also lies buried, and keep with those 
who still walk abroad in the sun. 

Faustina walks abroad, — or is at liberty to do so. 
And Mrs. Apjohn enjoys that precious privilege. And 
Tasso Smith, this wild December morning, comes forth, 
basking. 

Pleased is Tasso; smiling and airy his port. A note, 
sent by Melissa’s hand, has summoned him to an in- 
terview with Faustina. Locks well greased and curled. 


284 


Neighbors' Wives. 


coat buttoned close, to conceal his unpresenlable linen, 
his showy red-topped boots drawn over his strapped- 
down pantaloons, he treads daintily through the thaw- 
ing snow, flourishing his light stick. For the first time 
since the memorable night of his discomfiture, he stops 
at Abel’s gate, and rings the door-bell with complacent 
mien; considering that, by consummate diplomacy and 
strategic skill, he has, without loss to himself, but 
through the agency of others, routed his enemy, Abel, 
whose castle now lies at his mercy; never suspecting 
that he himself, like all the rest, is the agent of a 
Power above them all. 

The garrison of the place, in the person of old Turk, 
growls at his red-topped boots, in a way the conquering 
hero does not like. But Melissa makes haste to admit 
him, and he is ushered into the presence of Faustina. 

In the parlor sits the afflicted daughter-in-law, clad in 
deep mourning. With a dreary sigh she recognizes 
Tasso, and, half-rising, gives him her sad hand. 

“ Come to condole with you,” says Mr. Smith. “ Aw- 
ful dispensation, old lady’s dying so. Mus’n’t let it 
break your heart.” 

“ Don’t mock me, Tasso ! I’m in a dreadful situa- 
tion ! You’ve no idea of it ! ” 

“ Well, no, I don’t see it.” 

“ Oh, I am I Think of my husband ! What will 
become of me, Tasso ? ” 

“ Good joke, I say, ’bout your husband, as you call 
him I ” chuckles Tasso. “ Good ’nough for him ; jeai- 


The Beghining of the End. 


ous, grouty, unhospitable feller, like him I Don’t you 
go to sheddin’ no unnecessary tears on his account, — 
le’ine me advise 3^e.” 

But Faustina had fears for her own safety and reputa- 
tion. “Murder will out, folks say; and I believe it,” 
she declared, in allusion to her own guilt^^ secret. 

“ Fudge, no danger ! Only you walk pertty straight 
now, and do as I tell ye, — conform’ble to my s’ges- 
tions, y’ und’stand. If a feller’s only shrewd enough, 
he can do what he’s a mind to in this world, and not git 
found out. There’s my little compliment to Ma’am Ap- 
john, — tomatuses, ye know,” whispered the highly sat- 
isfied Tasso, — “ who's found that out ? By George I 
they think ’twas Abel, to this day I ” 

“ O Tasso I ” exclaimed Faustina, “ that’s one thing 
I wanted to see you about. Mrs. Apjohn knows, — 
she has heard, somehow, — the gracious knows how, I 
don’t I ” 

“ Heard what I Not that I ” — began the startled, in- 
credulous Mr. Smith. 

“Yes; in the jail, before Abel, she declared that it 
was you, as she had certain means of knowing.” 

“ Most ’stonishing thing ! ” muttered Tasso, confused 
to learn that his brag of superior shrewdness had been 
somewhat premature. “ She must have guessed at it.” 

“ So I suppose. But she turned, and accused me so 
positively of having first told you of her stealing 
our tomatoes, that I couldn’t deny it. How she ever 
knew that, I can’t surmise.” 


286 


Neighbors' Wives, 


But Tasso thought he could; for it had not been in 
his nature to refrain from imparting the pith of so ex- 
cellent a jest to one or two choice companions, whom he 
now cursed in his heart. Faustina, perceiving that her 
version — or rather perversion — of the facts was 
received, assumed the air of a person who had had 
injuries, and went on, — 

“ So you see the blame all fell on me, after all. And 
I thought it was too bad I I shall hear of somebody’s 
betraying me altogether, next.” 

Tasso, completely outlied by the fair Faustina, after 
all his conceited cunning, protested that her suspicion 
was unfounded, and volunteered some excellent advice 
and consolation. 

“Don’t you have no fears whatever, — indulg’ii’ in 
unfounded apprehensions, y’ und’stand. 'No use ; all 
right you are; and you can jest go and take your pi( k 
of another husband soon as ye please, — handsome 
woman like you. Ye can git a divorce now, j’e km)w 
it?” 

“ A divorce ? ” Faustina looked up with interest. 
“ From Abel ? ” 

“ Of course ! didn’t you know ? Five years in state’s- 
prison, — that’s a sufficient ground for a divorce, in this 
State. And, by George, Faustina ! — charming woman 
like you, — of course you aint so soft as to keep tied to 
a state’s-prison culprit, in for five years, when you’ve 
only got to say the word, to swap him off for some- 
thin’ more attractive, more suitable to your rcfinnd 


The Beginning of the End, 287 

tastes;” and Mr. Smith smoothed the curve of ms 
mustache with a significant, seductive smile. 

Much more sage counsel of the kind the disinterested 
visitor gave freely, without incurring any very severe 
reprimand from Faustina, who only sighed and raised 
feeble objections. They then parted, on quite confi- 
dential terms. Thus Faustina had made haste to break 
one of her solemn promises to Abel, — that she would 
avoid all unprofitable associates; and it could hardly 
be expected that her other promises would be kept 
more sacredly. 

The remainder of the day, and the night that fol- 
lowed, when she should have remembered Abel, in 
prison for her sake, and have had no care but for his 
child, what was she feverishly dreaming ? 

The next morning, hurried and fluttering, she ap- 
peared before Eliza. For Eliza still remained in the 
house, from which she could not resolve to depart, al- 
though those she loved had gone, and a husband and 
a home awaited her in another place. 

“ I have concluded,” said Faustina, “ that I ought to 
go and see my relations, and make some arrangements 
for the future. I suppose I can live with them, and 
this house can be let until Abel — until we want it 
again.” 

“ And Ebby ? ” said Eliza. 

“ Oh ! — Ebby, — I was about to say, — I suppose — 
I’d better not take him with me ; for I don’t know yet 
what I am going to do. If I make such arrangements 


288 


Neighbors' Wives. 


as I hope to, I will either return for him, or have Me- 
lissa bring him to me. You wont object to waiting a 
few days, until I can decide, will you ? ” 

“By no means,” answered Eliza. “I will remain as 
long as I can be of service here, and do all I can for 
you. With regard to Ebby, I have had it in my mind 
to say to you, that, if you cannot conveniently keep 
him with you, I shall be only too glad to take him.” 

“ What I you ? ” exclaimed Faustina, with real or 
affected surprise. “Abel would never consent to such 
a thing ! ” 

Eliza suppressed some words of bitter truth that rose 
from her heart almost to her lips; and, after a little 
pause, replied calmly, — 

“ I ventured to speak to Abel about it. And he sa'd 
that in case you should find it too hard to take care 
of Ebby, he was willing that I should have him.” 

“ I’m not willing, if he is,” retorted Faustina, decided- 
ly. “ I can never, never be parted from my darling 
boy 1 ” 

Eliza regarded her with deep, sad eyes. “ I know,” 
she said, very quietly, “ it would be too cruel to separate 
you from him.” 

“No,” said Faustina; “I could never suffer it. It 
would not be kindness to the child. Who can fill a 
mother’s place ? ” 

“True,” said Eliza, with something too solemn for 
sarcasm, from the depths of her aggrieved spirit; “who 
can fill the place of a mother ? ” 


The Beginning of the JSnd, 289 

“ So that is settled,” exclaimed the exemplary mother, 
very positively. 

Still,” replied Eliza, “ you may remember my 
offer.” 

“ I’ll remember it; and it is very kind in you, cer- 
tainly. But if you will have the goodness to remain 
here a few days, as I said, — not more than a week, at 
the most, — I’ll be infinitely obliged to you; after that, 
I think I shall not find occasion to trouble you any 
farther.” 

That day Faustina departed. At the end of a week 
Eliza had not heard from her. Another week also passed 
without bringing any tidings of the absent mother. Ac- 
cordingly Eliza, finding herself in a perplexing situation, 
wrote to inquire what were her prospects and intentionfl. 
Several days after the letter was sent, there came a 
tardy, despondent, indefinite reply. Faustina had not 
been able to accomplish her object as yet. She had 
been ill, — else she would have written earlier. Some 
of her relatives were absent, and she could not form any 
plans until their return, etc. 

Eliza could not peer through the mists of distance, 
and see this passionately devoted mother of the child 
from whom she could never, never be separated, seek- 
ing distraction and solace in the home of her spoiled 
and petted girlhood. She could not hear the objurga- 
tions hurled by her flatterers at the villain husband, the 
utterly remorseless Abel, who had ruined the hopes and 
happiness of so beautiful a being. She possessed no 
25 


290 


Neighbors^ Wives, 


means to penetrate that beautiful being’s breast, and dis- 
cover, among the selfish purposes there cherished, the se- 
cret determination never to return to the convict’s home 
again, and never to be troubled with the maintenance 
of his child. So Eliza remained in doubt, and did her 
duty to Ebby, and wrote to Abel as cheerful and com- 
forting letters as she could, — letters, by the way, which 
were not nearly so abundant in protestations "of affection 
and fidelity as those he was at the same time receiving 
from Faustina. 

At length Eliza became weary. The house had grown 
lonesome and ghostly to her oppressed heart. She wished 
to be away. She resolved, therefore, to place no more 
reliance upon the mother’s promises, but to go, and take 
Ebby with her. 


Miss yones and Mr, Smith, 291 


XXXII. 

MISS JONES AND MR. SMITH. 

“We will shut up the house, Melissa. You can keep 
the key of it until Mrs. Dane decides what she is going 
to do. Those things in the closet ought to be sent to 
her, so as to leave as few as possible locked up in the 
house.” 

“ Them things is mine, if you please, ma’am,” 
Melissa, hanging her head, and casting up timid glances 
at Eliza. 

“Yours, girl I Did Mrs. Dane give you those 
dresses ? ” 

Melissa hesitated, corkscrewing a foolish finger into a 
corner of her mouth, as if she meant to uncork it. 

“ Yes, she did, if you please, ma’am.” 

“ Why did you never take them, then ? ” 

“’Cause, ma’am” — Melissa was making a spiritless 
attempt to introduce her fist after her finger, and talk- 
ing at the same time, — “I wa’n’t sure, ma’am, ’s I’d 
ought’er take ’em. I don’t know hardly now whuther 
I’d ought’er take ’em, or whuther I hadn’t ’dought’er. I 
ruther guess” (down went the timid eyes, very meekly) 
•* I hadn’t ’doiight’er take ’em, after all.” 


292 


Neighbors Wives, 

‘‘If she gave them to you, they are y^urs, and you 
shall certainly have them,” said Eliza. 

But now a sense of guilt and shrinking fear overcame 
the conscientious Melhsa. 

•‘Ko, no, ma’am; 1 wont take ’em, if you please, 
ma’am; it wouldn’t be right.” 

“ Why not, if they were given to you for honest ser- 
vi:e?” 

“ Oh, dear I they wa’n’t I I’m afraid they wa’n’t, 
ma’am I ” whimpered the girl. “ Don’t ax me no more 
about it, if you please, ma’am.” And the apron was 
got in readiness for an imminent outburst. 

Now Eliza had not lived three months in that house, 
and observed the external daily life of it, without sus- 
pecting that there were things hidden beneath the 
surface which should be brought to light. Especially 
since the morning when she returned from Abel in the 
jail, and entered the room where his wife lay expect- 
ing Melissa, had she been conscious of extraordinary 
confidences between mistress and maid, in which, per- 
haps, Abel’s honor was concerned. Still she had 
avoided hitherto any attempt to pry into these secrets; 
and, but for the girl’s singular conduct on this occasion, 
what followed might never have occurred. 

Miss Jones threw her apron over her head to defend 
herself, begging for mercy. 

“ Mercy, child ? ” said Eliza. “ Why do you talk and 
act in this way ? What harm will happen to you, if 


Miss yones and Mr, Smith. 293 

you tell the truth about the dresses, and, if they are 
yours, take them? ” 

“ I don’t want ’em I ” sobbed Melissa in her apron. 
“Please, ma’am, don’t make me take ’em; and don’t 
make me tell the truth about ’em, for Mrs. Dane told 
me never to tell the truth, so long as I live. Oh 1 Oh I 
Oh I” 

“ Hush I hush I She told you never to tell the truth 
Nonsense I ” 

“ Oh, yes, she did, ma’am 1 She give me the things 
to hire me never to tell; and I wa’n’t never to tell why 
she give ’em to me; and now, oh, dear, dear, dear, I’ve 
been and gone and told 1 ” 

Eliza, now fully roused, endeavored to pacify her, 
then said, firmly, — 

“ I certainly do not wish you to tell anything which 
you ought not to. But, do you know, Melissa, it may 
be very wrong for you not to tell ? ” 

“Oh, yes, ma’am; I’ve thought so myself many and 
many a time, and told Mrs. Dane so; and then she’d 
give me something else, and make me promise ag’in, 
and tell me buggers would ketch me if ever I lisped a 
word on’t 1 And, oh, dear, dear, what shall I do ? ” 

“ Think it over,” said Eliza, “ then do just what you 
think is right. If what you know has any connection 
with Abel’s being in prison, where we are so sure he 
ought not to bo, then, as you fear God more than you 
do Mrs. Dane, speak ! ” 

“ Oh, I will ! I will I ” exclaimed Melissa, throwing 


Neighbors^ Wives, 


294 

off her apron, and all concealment with it. Ai.d as her 
face emerged red and wet from that covering, so the 
truth came out glowing, and saturated with tears of 
repentance, from the cloud of deception which had been 
80 long laid over it. A tragic interest held Eliza, as 
she listened. 

“ Who else knows of this but you ? anybody ? ” she 
asked. 

“Kobody, not as I know on, ’thout ’tis Tasso Smith, 
— she’s told him some things, I don’t know how much.” 

Eliza left the girl wiping her face ; and, throwing on 
her bonnet and shawl, set out to call on Mr. Smith. 

As she was passing Mr. Apjohn’s house, Mrs. Ap- 
john threw open a front window, showed her animated 
russet face, and, putting out an arm of the biggest, 
beckoned violently. 

“ Come in here 1 come in here I ” she cried. “ Come 
right straight in, ’Lizy; without a word ! ” 

Not knowing what momentous question was at issue 
or what lives were at stake, Eliza felt impelled to go in 
and see. She ran to the door, which the excited Pru- 
dence opened for her, and, entering, beheld with surprise 
the pale, pimpled, simpering face of a worried youth, 
whom Mrs. Apjohn indignantly pointed out to her. 

It was Mr. Tasso Smith, — entrapped, it seemed, ex- 
pressly for her. Behind Tasso stood Mr. Cooper Ap- 
john, submissive, sighing and winking, and meekly en- 
deavoring to deprecate his wife’s wrath. 

“ Look at him ! ” said Prudence. “ I want ye to look 


Miss Jones and Mr. Smith. 295 

at him well, ’Lizy I See if ye can’t make him blush, — 
for I can’t ! the miserable, lyin’, pompous, silly, con- 
saited jackanapes ! ” 

“ Prudy ! Prudy ! don’t be rash ! don’t be rash, 
Prudy ! ” interposed the cooper. 

“Oh, let her speak her mind,” said Tasso, with a 
ghastly grimace. “Like to have folks speak their 
minds, — express their honest sentiments, y’ und’- 
stand; ” and he pulled his mustache nervously. 

“ You needn’t be the leastest mite consarned but 
what I’ll speak mine,” Mrs. Apjohn informed him. 
“ I’ve been waiting to git holt of ye ever sence the 
trial. An’ you’ve kep’ out of my way perty well, — 
as if you knowed what was good for yourself, you 
sneakin’, desaitful, underhand, sill}’’, grinnin’,” — 

“ Prudy I Prudy ! ” interrupted the cooper. 

“I was jest walking by, like any quiet gentleman,” 
Tasso explained to Eliza, “when she reshed out, by 
George I and actchilly collared me, by George I J’ever 
hear of such a thing ? By George, I thought she meant 
to serve me as she did Dane’s tomatoes, — steal me and 
cook me and eat me for dinner ! by George ! ” 

At that Prudence collared him again, and choked and 
shook the pale joker till his teeth chattered. 

“ See here ! better take care ! my clo’es I ” observed 
Tasso, startled by the cracking of stitches. 

“ I don’t care for your clo’es ! ” said Prudence, furi- 
ously. “ Insult me to my face, will ye ? You dirty, 
mean, impudent, dastardly, squash-faced, measly,” — 


296 


N’eighbors’ Wives, 


“ Prudy I Prudy I ” whispered the cooper. 

Eliza now thought it time to interfere. Her calm, 
decisive manner exerted a Christianizing influence over 
the energetic Prudence. 

“ Wal, then I ” said the latter, ‘‘to come to the p’int, 
what I wanted of you is this : I’ve charged this scoun- 
drel here with bangin’ them tomatiises on to my door, 
and he denies it.” 

“ Certainly I do,” corroborated Tasso, — who, it may 
as well be told, having conferred with his cronies, who 
he feared had betrayed his secret, and become con- 
vinced that they had not, was now prepared to maintain 
his innocence by stoutest lies. “ And I defy her to 
prove it.” 

“ And I,” added Prudence, “ of course, told him what 
Faustina said that day in jail. But he declares she 
never said no sech thing, but I said it, and tried to git 
her to own up to it I Now, what I want of you is, to 
tell jest what was said that day, and who said it.” And 
Mrs. Apjohn folded her immense arms. 

Thereupon, in few words, Eliza related the simple, 
direct truth. That dashed the spirits of young Smith 
more than all Mrs. Apjohn’s hard names and shaking 
had done. 

“ By George ! ’d she say that ? What else ’d she 
say ? by George ! ” — glaring maliciously. 

Eliza perceived that the moment was ripe for her pur- 
pose. Her eyes held him, as she spoke, by the power 
of their earnestness and truth. 


Miss Jones and Mr. Smith. 297 


“ She did not say all she might have said. She was 
more ready to accuse others than to take any blame to 
herself. It is your turn now, Tasso Smith, to speak the 
truth concerning Faustina Dane.” 

Tasso smirked and glared, hesitating between resent- 
ment against Faustina and an unforgotten grudge 
against Eliza. 

“ Shouldn’t think you’d expect much truth from me, 
after the ruther hard joke you tried onto me that day 
in the court-house; callin’ me a liar, right ’fore all the 
people, by Gfeorge ! ” 

Sturdy little Eliza, unabashed by this retort, stood up 
unflinchingly facing him, her brow beaming with courage 
and sincerity. 

“ And did you not deserve that I should call you a 
liar ? Kemember what you were saying of Abel at the 
very time, — and of Faustina, — when you knew every 
word you said was false. If I had known then, what 
I know now, I’d have dragged you before the court, and 
compelled you to testify ! ” 

“ Hey ? By George ! what did I know ? ” said Tasso. 

“ That’s what you are to confess before ever you quit 
this house ! And don’t imagine you can deceive me in 
any particular. Mrs. Dane had more confldants than 
one; and everything has been revealed. I was on my 
way to see you; for it is time you should do something 
to avert the suspicion of being her accomplicfj.” 

“ By George ! I warn’t no accomplice of nobody’s : 
I’ll resk that suspicion I ” 


298 


Neighbors^ Wives. 


“ Don’t be too sure I ” Eliza warned him. “ Abel Dane 
felt himself safe against a false charge, trusting in his 
own innocence. You are in some danger, Tasso I You 
sold Mrs. Dane the jewels; you are aware how she 
paid for them, and how she replaced the money with 
which she paid for them. You see the truth is 
known.” 

Tasso saw, and felt sick. It took him not long now to 
make up his mind what to do. Since Faustina had set 
the example of treachery by betraying him, — and since 
her other confidants, of whom, he now thought, she 
might have twenty, had also set the example, — he 
resolved to waste no time in purging himself of the 
aforesaid suspicion. 

“ Sit down,” Eliza directed, with a quick, quiet, domi- 
nant, business-like manner. And Tasso sat down. 

“ Mrs. Aj^John, bring me a pen and ink.” 

A pen, used in keeping the cooper’s accounts, and in 
making memoranda in the almanac, was produced, to- 
gether with some muddy ink. 

“ Now, sir, tell your story. You are not under oath 
yet, but you will be before I am through with you. 
Mr. and Mrs. Apjohn, listen.” 

They listened; and Eliza wrote; while Tasso pro- 
ceeded to make his astounding revelations, by which 
Melissa’s statement was fully confirmed. 

“ O Prudy I Prudy ! ” cried the wonder-stricken 
John. “Abel is a innocent man, arter all 1 And he is 
in for five year’ 1 and his mother has been killed by it ( 


Miss yones and Mr. Smith. 299 

and we — we’ve been — O Prudy I Prudy I To be sure, 
to be sure 1 ” 

Eliza did not wait to hear the exclamations and 
lamentations of the worthy pair; but, fastening herself 
to Tasso, informed him that he was to go presently be- 
fore a magistrate and take oath to the statement she 
had received from his lips. They were to stop on their 
way for Melissa; and Mrs. Apjohn eagerly volunteered 
to “run over and take care of the baby,” during the 
girl’s absence; for that solid and sterling woman was 
now enlisted with her whole body and soul in Abel’s 
cause, showing herself even more anxious for his deliver- 
ance than she had ever been for his condemnation. 


300 


JVez^hbors' Wires. 


XXXIII. 

eltza’s mission. 

Tasso’s elegant signature was soon affixed, under oath 
and in the presence of witnesses, to the paper Eliza 
had drawn up. Kext, Melissa’s affidavit was secured. 
Then, how to proceed, with these instruments, to elfect 
Abel’s liberation, became the important question. For 
now Eliza could not rest, day or night, until the requi- 
site steps had been taken to restore him to honor, and 
freedom, and happiness. 

She was dismayed when told that the sentence must 
be set aside by due process of law; and that, to make 
the necessary ap^ieal, and await the slow course of jus- 
tice, would require patience and time, — perhaps months, 
— when every moment was precious. “ Besides,” she 
was assured, “ any confession Faustina might have 
made, or might still make, would probably be insuffi- 
cient to exculpate her husband. They were one, by 
marriage; for her actions he was in a certain sense ac- 
countable; he had shared the fruit of her crime; and 
her evidence, even if she chose to give it, could hardly 
be received in court, she being his wife; and there were 
many other difficulties to be overcome. Individuals 


Eliza^s Mission* 


301 

might be easily convinced of Abel’s inocence; but the 
law was not an individual. The law had no conscience; 
it was without sympathy or understanding; it was a 
machine.” , 

Still she was not disheartened, she would not rely 
upon the law to right the wrong the law had done. She 
would rely upon the human heart, and upon the justice 
of her cause; and nothing should divert her from her 
purpose, or induce her to waste an hour in idle delay, till 
Abel was free. 

In addition to the affidavits of Tasso and Melissa, she 
procured those of John and Prudence Apjohn, in which 
they, as chief witnesses against Abel, now declared their 
conviction of his innocence, for reasons assigned. She 
also visited the attorneys who had prosecuted him, the 
judge who had sentenced him, and each individual 
of the twelve who had found him guilty. She car- 
ried with her a well-worded petition which she had 
prepared; and such was her eloquence, such her mag- 
netic and persuasive earnestness, that lawyers, judge, 
and jury, all signed it. To these names she found 
no difficulty in adding the signatures of a hundred 
of Abel’s townsmen, including three ministers, a con- 
gressman, two ex-members of the State legislature, 
together with several selectmen, deacons, and other 
prominent citizens. 

More than a week was consumed in these preliminary 
labors, notwithstanding Eliza’s utmost endeavors to 
despatch them in a day or two. From dawn to mid- 
26 


302 


Neighbors^ Wives, 


night she was incessantly employed, with a vigor and 
vigilance and hope that never flagged. At length all 
was ready. And, armed with her affidavits, her peti- 
tion, and a formidable legal document which Abel’s 
counsel had furnished, she set out, one memorable 
morning, on a journey. 

The petition was to the governor of the State. Her 
mission was to him. On the evening of the same day 
she reached the capital of the State ; and, without stop- 
ping even to change her attire, inquired her way hur- 
riedly through the strange streets till she came to the 
governor’s house. 

He was at home. How her heart throbbed on being 
told this by the servant at the door, and being invited 
in I And so, tremblingly, yet with a brave and resolute 
heart, she entered the warmly-lighted hall of the house 
in which she felt that the question of Abel’s destiny was 
to be Anally decided. 


Eliza and the Governor, 


303 


XXXIY. 

ELIZA AND THE GOVERNOR. 

In a quiet little room she was told to sit down, while 
the servant communicated her name and the nature of 
her errand to the governor. She had not long to wait. 
His Excellency — a kind, affable person — came pres- 
ently into the apartment, looked at her somewhat curi- 
ously, shook hands with her, and sitting down, like any 
pleasant gentleman, with no frown of the high official 
about him, listened to her story. 

He was a man who loved straightforward dealing and 
despatch; and the directness, simplicity, and brevity 
with which she laid her business before him made him 
smile. 

But he was a cautious man withal; and, when she 
had finished, all he could promise was, that the petition, 
with the accompanying documents, should be carefully 
examined, and laid before his council; and that he 
would endeavor to do impartial justice in the matter. 
It might be several days, he said, before he would be 
prepared to grant or refuse the pardon for which the 
hundred petitioners prayed; but there should be no need- 
less delay; and, if it would be any satisfaction to her 


304 Neighbor Wives, 

inipatience, she might call on him again the next evening 
at his house. 

“ If I am occupied, and cannot see you, of course,” he 
added, “ you will not take it unkindly, nor be discour- 
aged.” 

She thanked him, with tears, which his gentle and 
frank speech called forth. Hitherto she .had controlled 
herself well, — concentrating all her emotions to give 
power to her appeal. But now the grief she had held 
back, the suffering of nights and days, kept down by 
constant activity, the hope and fear she felt, and her 
deep conviction of Abel’s innocence, — deeper and 
stronger than any reason she could give, — found utter- 
ance in a few broken but fervent words of thanks and of 
entreaty. And so she departed; not knowing whether 
she had spoken well or ill, shedding silent tears, and 
moving her lips to silent prayers, as she once more 
threaded the strange streets. 

She slept that night — for, after all her toils, she slept 
well — at a boarding-house to which one of the ex-mem- 
bers of the legislature had recommended her. The next 
day she felt refreshed and strong. But do you think 
she spent the hours that intervened till night in viewing 
Ihe sights of the city? Kot she. Having learned, by 
inquiry, where the state-prison was, she went to learn 
ner way to it; so that, the pardon procured, she could 
hasten, without an instant’s uncertainty, to bear it to 
her dear prisoner. A half-hour’s ride and a few min- 
utes’ walk brought her in sight of the formidable pile. 


Eliza and the Governor. 


305 


There rose the impassive gray walls, somewhere within 
which she knew her Abel breathed the air of captivity, 
that calm winter’s morning, while she breathed the air 
of freedom without. How mournfully and hopefully she 
walked by them, and far around, viewing them on every 
side; with what memories and thrills of tenderness she 
thought of him there immured, hopelessly plodding, 
never suspecting how near she was to him; with what 
stifled aspiration and rapture she anticipated their next 
meeting; and how she lingered, feeling a strange satis- 
faction in being there, though she could not see him nor 
make her presence known, — all this may be imagined, 
but not told. 

In the afternoon she returned to her boarding-house, 
and prepared for the evening. The hope of seeing the 
governor, and of hearing something favorable to her mis- 
sion, kept her heart occupied. But the hope was des- 
tined to disappointment. His Excellency was absent 
from home. And the only consolation she received was 
a notification that he would expect to see her at his 
office the next day. 

The next morning, at the hour assigned, little Eliza 
was already at the state-house, waiting for the bell to 
strike the minute. She had taken care to find the doors 
of the executive department ; and punctually, at the ap- 
pointed hour, she entered me awful precincts, and was 
ushered into the presence of the governor. 

He appeared absorbed in business ; but, recognizing 
26 * 


3o6 


Neighbors^ Wives, 


her, and, looking up at the clock, he immediately turned, 
and motioned her to a seat near him. 

“I have not forgotten you,” he said, “ though I was 
obliged to disappoint you last night.” 

He then spoke to a clerk, who brought to him a pack- 
age of papers, which Eliza perceived to be her petition, 
affidavits, and so forth. 

“I have done something in this unfortunate affair, 
too,” he added; but his manner was not promising. 
Eliza’s eyes were delighted by no pardon, and her hopes 
began to sink. “But how happens it,” he inquired, 
“ that, among all these papers, there is no memorial 
from the prisoner himself ? ” 

“ Sir,” said the earnest girl, “ I can explain that. He 
does not know yet that a pardon has been applied for. 
I thought it best not to inform him; for I w^ould not 
raise false expectations in his mind. Besides, — fori 
wish to be entirely frank with you, and rely upon your 
goodness, — I think it possible that he might not have 
approved of what his friends were doing.” 

“And why not?” said the governor, lifting his eye- 
brows with some surprise. 

“ I will not conceal anything,” replied Eliza. “ I 
think Mr. Dane was aware of his wife’s guilt; yet he 
would not expose her. He preferred to sacrifice him- 
self in her place.” 

“ It would appear, then, that he not only accepted and 
used the stolen money ” — 

“Osirl that was without his knowledge, — the affi- 


Eliza and the Governor. 307 

davits show that, — and I would pledge my life that it 
is true.” 

“ And yet,” said the governor, “ according to your 
own representation, he concealed her crime, and thus 
became an accessory after the fact.” 

“Do not, sir! do not let appearances and technicali- 
ties stand in the way of justice 1 ” Eliza conjured him. 
“ If appearances were truths, if the law was infallible, I 
should not be here. Grant that, in the eyes of the law, 
he was an accomplice; grant that it was criminal to 
conceal her crime, — I don’t care ! ” she cried, with 
flashing spirit. “ I know, and you know', sir, that it 
was nobler in him to conceal than to expose it. It was a 
holy sacrifice he made of himself, unworthy as she w'as. 
Ilis conduct is to be admired, and not blamed. In your 
heart you must commend it, whatever you may say. 
If what he did was a sin, I think such a sinner is wor- 
thier of heaven than many a precise saint. Such a spirit 
of self-sacrifice, — it overcomes me now to think of 
it ” — and Eliza dashed the quick tears from her eyes. 

“ But will this fine sinner thank us for what we are 
doing ? ” asked the governor, wuth a smile. 

“ He will at least forgive me for saving him in spite 
of himself and without his knowledge. And when he 
learns how his wife has repaid his devotion by deserting 
his child, he w'ill not regret that justice has come about 
through her own indiscretion.” 

“Well,” said the governor, smiling again very cu- 
riously, “ if that does not satisfy him, I have souiething 


3o8 


Ncischbors' Wives. 

here that I think will. Have you seeu the morning 
papers ? ” So saying, he took one from a pile on the 
desk, and handed it to Eliza, pointing to a paragraph. 
“ That will interest him, I think.” 

Eliza read, and turned white with astonishment and 
indignation. 

“ O sir ! ” she said in thick, tremulous ton'es, after a 
pause of speechless amazement, “ after this ” — 

“ After this,” interrupted the governor, “ I think both 
he and you will be satisfied with what I have done.” 
With which quiet speech, he opened a drawer, and pro- 
duced a large unsealed envelope, which he placed in her 
hand. 

Eliza knew well what it contained ; and as she drew 
forth the precious paper, and unfolded it, she could but 
just see the great shining seal and blurring signature 
through the tears of joy that blinded her. 


Deliverance, 


309 


XXXY. 

DELIVERANCE. 

And now Abel Dane was summoned from the prison 
workshop. In his bi-colored convict’s cap and coat and 
trousers, — one-half the man from head to heel blue, 
the other half red; one side the hue of despondency, 
the other the tint of shame, — forth he came, curious 
to know what was wanted. Following the warden, he 
crossed the prison-yard, ascended the steps he had 
descended on his arrival thither, and entered once more 
the room he h'ad passed through when he left all hope 
behind ; — so changed, since then, that she who waited 
for him there did not know him, but took him for some 
other. 

But he knew her in an instant. And at the first 
sound of his voice, at a look out of those deep, glad 
eyes, she recognized, in the grotesque wight before her, 
the transformed manhood of Abel. 

How they met; how she revealed to him the cause 
of her coming, and put with her own hands into his the 
governor’s pardon; and he knew that he was raised 
from the dead, and that she, his best-beloved was also 
his deliverer; — I am aware what a moving scene 


310 Neighbors' Wives. 

might be made of all this. But enough, — our story 
draws to a close. 

Abel was taken in charge by the warden for the last 
time. The clothes he put oft’ at his entrance into prison 
were restored to him; and he left behind his convict’s 
costume, for the benefit of some sad successor. Then 
he rejoined Eliza; and they quitted the prison to- 
gether. 

But it was all like a dream to him yet. Explanations 
were needed to relieve his uncertainty and suspense. 
And as they walked the street together, and he tasted 
with her the sweet air of liberty, and knew that his 
brief, terrible nightmare of prison life was indeed 
shaken oft*, she told him how his redemption had been 
achieved. 

Abel was troubled. In the midst of his gratitude and 
joy he was grieved for Faustina. She was his wife 
still. “ And I had hoped,” — he began. 

“I know what you hoped,” Eliza tenderly replied. 
“And I know — we all know — you have done every- 
thing for her a hero and Christian could do. But in 
vain. And, Abel, she is no longer your wife.” 

“ True ! true I ” said Abel. “ By God’s law, may-be, 
she is not. But man’s laws, — they are dift’erent, — I 
must abide by them.” 

He said this with a great sigh; hoping perhaps for 
some word of comforting assurance from Eliza. She 
too was agitated. She could hardly control her voice 
to answer him. 


Deliverance. 


311 

“ Yes, Abel. You must — you will be willing to sub- 
mit, I think. But the law, — human law, — what strange, 
strange things it is sometimes made to do ! Abel, I 
have brought this to show you.” And she gave him the 
governor’s news]>aper, putting her finger on the para- 
graph his Excellency had pointed out to her. 

Abel read as they walked the street. It was a notice 
of divorces granted; among which was one to Faus- 
tina Dane, from her husband, Abel Dane. “Cause — 
state-prison.” 

Grief and indignation convulsed him a moment. 

“ The injustice of it, Eliza ! — I in prison for her 
fault ! — and this after all her promises ! O Faustina I 
selfish and impulsive ! foolish and false I Thank Heav- 
en, it is she that has done this, and not I I ” 

So saying, with a deep breath of the pure electric air, 
a sense of relief, a new sense of freedom, and of some- 
thing deeply and divinely great and glad, entered into 
him. Eliza perceived it. 

“Yes, Abel; it is better. And oh, is it not wonder- 
ful, that God often makes those who would injure us 
the agents of our good I Oh, let us trust him, let us 
trust him always ! ” 

But even as she spoke, a shadow as of a brooding 
fatality fell upon them both. Not from the prison of 
stone alone, but also from the bondage of a false mar- 
riage, Abel saw himself, this day, as it were miraculous- 
ly delivered. And he could see how Tasso’s meanness, 
and Mrs. Ajyohn’s spite, and Faustina’s perfid}^, — how 


312 


Neighbors^ Wives. 


all his misfortunes, even that which had seemed the 
greatest, — had tended steadily, by sure degrees, to this 
consummation. And here he was, a free man, superior 
to disaster and disgrace, walking by the side of the 
woman he loved, and to whom he owed his rescue; 
and she, — her work was now done, and nothing re- 
mained but for her to go and bless the husband who had 
been so long waiting for her, in the home he had prof- 
fered, and which she had promised to accept 


Home. 


313 


XXXYI. 


HOME. 


They stopped in town to get some presents for 
Ebby, then took the train, and reached home the same 
evening. 

Alighting at the village, they looked in at the post- 
oflSce, and found a letter for Eliza. Whence and from 
whom it came, both knew. Abel was deeply moved; 
and Eliza, it must be owned, felt heavy misgivings as 
she pressed it unopened into her pocket. 

It was late; the fire was nearly out in the kitchen; 
the candle burned low in its socket; Melissa had fallen 
asleep over her knitting; Ebby was dreaming and 
smiling in the cushioned arm-chair ; and old Turk lay in 
the corner. 

Suddenly the scene changed. Melissa jumped up, 
rubbed her eyes, and, at the summons of a well-known 
voice, ran to open the door. Turk bounced from the 
hearth, and madly welcomed his master. Ebby also 
awoke, and saw his mamma (as he always persisted in 
calling Eliza), and his father who had come home with 
her, and the playthings they had brought him, and was 
the gladdest boy the round world then contained. 


3T4 Neighbors' Wives, 

There are kisses, and questions, and sujDper for the 
new-comers; and again the scene changes. Melissa is 
sent to put Ebby to bed. Then Abel and Eliza alone, — 
the clock telling the minutes of midnight; the long, 
earnest, tender, sorrowful talk; — she, yielding to him 
one all too sympathetic trembling hand, while with the 
other she clasps the still unopened letter in her pocket, 
as if that alone could keep her true to the absent one; 
there parting at last, in anguish, after all the joy and 
triumph of the day, — he lonely and bereft, she faithful 
still in purpose to her affianced, despite her most un- 
faithful heart; the sound of the door that closed be- 
tween them, and the utter silence and solitude of the 
night that followed ; — at which closing scenes of our 
drama we can only hint, for were we to relate in detail 
all that passed, 

The story would outlast a night in Russia, 

When nights are longest there.” 

Early the next morning, Abel, “ wrapped in dis- 
mal thinkings,” having vainly endeavored to sleep, 
sat alone by the fire, in the home to which he had 
been restored, only, as it seemed, to feel its vacancy, — 
Faustina lost, his mother gone, Eliza about to go. . FTo 
doubt Eliza was fast asleep, and dreaming of her dis- 
tant lover, to whom she was so soon to return. !So 
Abel thought, disconsolately enough; reflecting ungrate- 
fully that even his saddest night in prison had been 


Ho7ne. 


315 

happier than this , 4vhen he heard the door softly open, 
and, looking up, saw Eliza. She smiled faintly. 

“Darling!” he cried; — “I knew yon could not I 
I knew you would come back to me ! ” — though, poor 
fellow, he certainly knew no such thing, or else, as he 
eat there, the world would have looked to him somewhat 
less dreary. 

But Eliza, although she smiled, was shivering, and 
very pale; and he knew not yet whether to hope, or 
still to keep company with despair. 

“ There is something here — which I thought you 
ought to know of” — she said, in a voice shaking with 
the cold. And the letter of her betrothed, which, after 
much unhappy delay, she had summoned the resolution 
to read, she placed in Abel’s hand. Ah, different now 
the times from those long ago, when lu placed in /ler hand 
the letter of his love, the beautiful Faustina, and she could 
not read it for the wrong that was wringing her heart! 

Perhaps, by this time, that wrong had been amply 
avenged ; as all wrongs are, soon or late, in this world 
or the next. 

Abel read with interest, which darkened into pain as 
he proceeded, then kindled into surprise, and brightened 
at last into a blaze of triumph. 

The devoted lover, the generous, disinterested fi-iend, 
had grown at length impatient. Eliza’s letters had 
not satisfied him; that she cared more for Abel in 
prison than for him in the home he had offered her, was 
but too evident; and so, without penning a single re- 


3i6 


Neighbors' Wives. 


proach (for, indeed, she had dealt truly with him from 
the first, as he acknowledged), but not without pro- 
found regret on his part, he begged leave to release 
her from her engagement. 

“ But, Abel ! ” suddenly exclaimed Eliza, disengaging 
herself from his arms; and a shadow fell upon her 
glowing, suffused face. 

‘‘ What is it ? ” Abel asked, starting from the dream 
that their bliss was perfect now. 

“I OWE THAT DEAR MAN THREE HUNDRED DOL- 
LARS I ” 

“ Phew I ” whistled Abel, pursing up his brows ; for 
he knew this debt had been incurred for his sake, and 
that she had impoverished herself to fee his lawyers, 
and could not pay it, and that he had never a cent. 

“ He must be paid,” said Eliza. 

“ Certainly, he must be paid,” Abel muttered, plunged 
in thought, “ but how ? All my property is mortgaged. 
I can’t borrow. I’ve sold even my tool-chest. I can 
go to work, — and if ever I worked with a will, I shall 
now, — but that is a debt that should be paid at once. 
He is a noble man: he certainly deserved you, ’Liza, 
better than I do, I’m afraid, — I know ! ” feeling with 
deep humility how selfishly he had acted towards her 
from the first. 

They sat talking until the morning was well ad- 
vanced, — Abel’s mind still perplexed. 

There came a knock at the door, and, Melissa opening 
it, in walked John Apjohn the cooper, and Prudence 


Home, 317 

Apjohn lii& wife; who, having heard of Abel’s return, 
had hastened to be the first to congratulate him. 

Prudence was radiant, and John was gay and smil- 
ing, all his melancholy having been dissipated by the 
glad tidings of Abel’s release from prison. 

“ And if ever I heerd a bit o’ news that done my soul 
good,” said Prudence, all smiles and tears, “ it was when 
old Mr. Smith come to our house jest now for a firkin, 
and said you was seen gittin’ out 0’ the stage, you and 
’Lizy, up to the square, last night.” 

“And, I was a goin’ for to say,” said John, with boy- 
ish eagerness, — “ knowin’ as how you was put to’t for 
money ’fore the trial, — I was a goin’ for to say,” — 

“ Fact is,” — Prudence snatched the thread of his 
discourse, — “ me and my husband here has got three or 
four hunderd dollars a coinin’ in jest about this time, — - 
money we’ve lent in years past, — an’ as we’ve no 
’airthly use for it right away,” — 

“ An’ knowin’ ’t you sold off everything,” struck in 
the cooper, — “ an’ you must stand in need o’ somethin’ 
for to give ye a start,” — 

“ An’ if ’twould be any sort o’ ’commodation to you,” 
resumed Prudence, “to have the use o’ that money, 
’thout interest, for a year or so, or as long as ye want, 
till ye git a little ’forehanded agin, — ’‘ihoxii interest'' 
she repeated, emphatically, — “ why, you’re welcome tc 
it, you’re welcome to it, Abel Dane, as much as if you 
was my own son ! ” 

“ To be sure, to be sure,” assented the cooper. 


3i8 Neighbors' Wives. 

“O Abell how we are provided for!” exclaimed 
Eliza. 

Abel shook his neighbors heartily by the hand, and 
thanked them with deeper joy and gratitude than he 
could express, and of course consented to relieve them 
of their superfluous hundreds; sending them home 
rejoicing. 

The debt was paid, and Abel began life anew. 

And so all things came duly round at last: the circle 
grew complete, — Abel obtaining without long delay a 
divorce from his already divorced wife, and entering 
with Eliza the path of blessedness into which the devi- 
ous ways of difficulty and the sometimes dark ways of 
duty had led them. 

It remains to add only a word. Eaustina never saw 
husband or child again. But while Abel consoled him- 
self, and Ebby found indeed a mother in Eliza, she, the 
beautiful one, married a second time, and lives, as I 
learn, a gay life. 

And so poetical justice is not done ? Very well; 
divine justice is done, nevertheless. I am not aware 
that either she or Tasso Smith ever received for their 
misdeeds what the world calls punishment. But that 
any one is permitted to live on, unrepentant and un- 
checked, a life of selfishness, is perhaps, in the sight of 
a higher Wisdom, the greatest punishment of all. 


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” This is a capital story for boys. Trowbridge never tells a story poorly. 
It teaches honesty, integrity, and friendship, and how best they can be pro- 
moted. It shows the danger of hasty judgment and circumstantial evidence; 
that right-doing pays, and dishonesty never.” — Chicago Inter-Ocean. 

The Rover. ByJ. T. Trowbridge. Illustrated. $1.25. 

“ This book will help to neutralize the ill effects of any poison which children 
may have swallowed in the way of sham-adventurous stories and wildly fictitious 
tales, ‘The Jolly Rover’ runs away from home, and meets life as it is, till he 
is glad enough to seek again his father’s house. Mr. Trowbridge has the 
power of making an instructive story absorbing in its interest, and of covering 
a moral so that it is easy to take.” — Christian Intelligencer. 

Young" Joe, AND Other Boys. ByJ. T. Trowbridge. Illus- 
trated. $1.25. 

“Young Joe,” who lived at Bass Cove, where he shot wild ducks, took some 
to town for sale, and attracted the attention of a portly gentleman fond of shoot- 
ing. This gentleman went duck shooting with Joe, and their adventures were 
more amusing to the boy than to the amateur sportsman. 

There are thirteen other short stories in the book which will be sure to please 
the young folks. 


The Vagabonds: An Illustrated Poem. By J. T. Trow- 
bridge. Cloth. $1.50. 

” The Vagabonds ” are a strolling fiddler and his dog. The fiddler has been 
ruined by drink, and his monologue is one of the most pathetic and effective 
pieces in our literature. 


LEE AND SHEPARD, BOSTON, SEND THEIR COMPLETE CATALOGUE FREE. 


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